


shelter

by tangeton



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 20:29:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8415619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangeton/pseuds/tangeton
Summary: A Jedi and a slave walk into a bar. This could be a setup to a terrible joke, and it is, because Obi-Wan really hadn’t meant to free all the slaves on this blasted planet. Tatooine AU.





	1. hard and fast, crashing back into your life

**Author's Note:**

> who wants to see anakin fulfill his dream of freeing tatooine from slavery and tagging along with obi-wan on a wayward tatooine adventure?
> 
> i do, and this is what happened.

A sudden drop out of hyperspace sent Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi careening out of his chair, gracefully spilling out onto the floor in a mess of flailing brown robes.

Obi-Wan had only a fleeting moment to reacquaint himself with his new location before the navicomputer began broadcasting its diagnosis in the form of a shrill wail that quickly cut through the haze of his confusion. He stumbled quickly to his feet in the face of the ship’s momentum—Sith hells, the dampeners must also have been damaged—to find himself face-to-face with the reason for all the _bad feelings_ he’d been having since he’d left Bothawui this morning.

“Force,” Obi-Wan swore as he read off the first line of the diagnostic report, fingers deft across the console as he desperately maneuvered the ship out of its crash course, pulled in by the gravity of the nearby planet.

_Engine trouble._

Of all the places for him to be forced to land, why did it have to be _Tatooine?_

 

* * *

 

Tatooine was exactly the same as he had left it eight years ago. A smoldering pit filled to the brim with criminals and swindlers alike.

“The docking fee is 1000 credits after dusk. We don’t haggle.”

Case in point. No other world he’d visited had ever charged more than 500 credits for a docking fee. Obi-Wan made a valiant attempt at preventing the building stress and exasperation from showing on his face. Tatooine was one Hutt short of becoming a second Ryloth, he groused, already feeling the corruption of the planet authorities sinking into his skin, as physical as any real substance.

“You don’t have to have as many personnel manning the dock at these hours. It surely wouldn’t hurt if you lightened up the fee. And I expect I’ll be staying a long time for repairs, which is excellent for your business.” Authority be damned, he would haggle if he needed to. If he was going to be staying here for an extended period of time, even the smallest amount of credits would make a difference in the long run. Before even factoring in the potential cost of repairs.

The Sullustan dockmaster brought a gloved hand to the holopad, flicking through its contents with a series of quick gestures, likely checking the profits he’d made earlier today.

“750 credits, and you stop arguing.”

Obi-Wan sighed and agreed quickly, letting the Force compulsion slip out of his voice. As a negotiator, Obi-Wan knew exactly when pushing started hurting rather than helping, and he didn’t enjoy using the Force on those who didn’t deserve it.

“I will pay for three days’ worth of fees,” he said, drawing out a bundle of Republic credit chips from his utility belt. He was immensely grateful that Republic credits still had some worth in the Mos Espa spaceport. Being so far out from the Republic, Republic currency didn’t carry much weight out in the Outer Rim worlds. He would have to exchange some of the Council-issued emergency funds into the local Hutt-enforced currency. “Would you be able to point me to a mechanic?”

“Bay D-14 is the ground for contracted mechanics,” the Sullustan said, scanning the exchanged credits with a dated, dusty scanner plucked off of his utility belt. The dockmaster waved him off curtly, moving back towards the dock office. “The creds are good. Have a nice day.”

Obi-Wan adjusted his ratty shawl with a sigh before setting his shoulders and moving out of his borrowed landing pad and into the adjoining hallway. Even as the Tatooinian heat did no favors for his increasing stress levels, the Force hummed with a strange, resonant energy underneath his mental shields. It was a bright buzz in the corner of his mind, intent clearly benign. But he knew that if he were to let up his shields even for a second, it would throw him headlong into the beginnings of a burgeoning headache he absolutely did not need. The sensation was suffused in the blanket of the Force, and he found it quite impossible to discern the source of the power.

The fabric of the Force was unusually strong, here.

But if Obi-Wan had to put a name to how the Force felt, it would be _irritated._

At least he wasn’t the only one feeling that way today, he thought as he swiped at the sweat accumulating on his forehead.

His eyes skimmed the labelling on the bay doors as he mentally reinforced his shields to the best of his ability, providing an instant relief from the pressure on his mind. Bay D-14.

Obi-Wan stepped into the large, repurposed docking bay full of ships of all types, machines of every variety, and mechanics and engineers covered in dirt and oil. Sticking out like a sore thumb in his stain-free disguise he was instantly spotted by the manager, an aging green Twi’lek, who greeted him from his supervisor’s chair.

“Looking for help?” The man withdrew a pen from a pocket from the lapel of his stained jumpsuit, holding it in his teeth as he stood up to search his utility belt.

“Indeed,” Obi-Wan said, making his way towards the large stack of crates the man had been inventorying before his interruption. “I have an HWK-290 freighter with a damaged hyperdrive in Bay C-8.”

The Twi’lek supervisor made an assenting noise, finally pulling out a small notepad from a pouch. He stuck a thumb midway through the pad and opened it, flipping two pages backwards. He tapped the page with a pause that indicated some thought.

“I will have a mechanic go over to the bay and assess the damage,” the manager said, and let out a high, sharp whistle that made Obi-Wan’s eye twitch. “Anakin!”

If Obi-Wan never had to hear the sound of assorted metallic parts clattering to the floor again, it would have been too soon. As it was, assorted tools skidded screeching across the hangar floor as a figure skittered out from behind stacked crates, catching him in a rare moment of surprise. A surge in the Force washed over him, a subcategory of the prods and hints that he usually heeded, a whisper of indication that there was something _unusual_ in the destiny of this lanky teenager.

“I told you to stop tinkering with your projects on duty,” the supervisor said, pinning him with an annoyed look. The boy, Anakin, frowned, an insubordinate spark flaring to life in his eyes even as his posture slumped almost imperceptibly.

“I’m off duty right now,” Anakin protested, defiant in a way that could only be attributed to youthful rebellion. His supervisor slapped him upside his unkempt blond head with the notepad, making Obi-Wan wince and look away briefly.

“You were on duty two hours ago. Go to bay C-8, check out the HWK there. Give me a report when you get back.” The supervisor made a shooing motion with his hands, a clear dismissal. Anakin scowled, stashing his tools onto his utility belt and stomping towards the exit. Obi-Wan nodded at the manager, who had already directed his attention elsewhere, and followed Anakin out of the bay.

 

* * *

 

There are a lot of things about this planet that were throwing him off, Obi-Wan considered. The rampant crime, the bizarre behavior of the Force.

The slavery.

Because that is what Anakin was, a slave. The truth of it was written in his posture, the years of servitude written in the lines of his skin. Obi-Wan could feel the frown that wanted to surface and beat it back down into submission. He was not here to sympathize with the troubles of the planet, no matter how unjust and distasteful he thought the plight of the slaves was on this blasted planet.

He was suddenly struck with the keen desire to see Coruscant again; to be able to walk into the Temple and fall into the grass of the Room, where the temperature didn’t threaten to rip his skin off, where he could prod and needle his padawan at his leisure—

“So, where’re you from?”

Obi-Wan blinked the vision of home away from his thoughts. “I’m sorry?”

Blue eyes rolled over to look at Obi-Wan, affecting casual disinterest, even as Obi-Wan could sense in the Force that it was emphatically untrue. “You don’t seem like the sort who usually come here for business,” he threw out carelessly, stretching his arms out as they walked. “The usual Outer Rim business, I mean.”

Obi-Wan couldn’t help the snort that ripped its way out of his throat. “Like anything short of engine trouble would ever make me willingly come out to the armpit of the galaxy.”

He hadn't meant for the quip to make it past the cutting room floor, either.

Anakin blinked a few times and spluttered a little, genuinely startled out of his apathy. “That’s one way to describe Tatooine,” Anakin laughed, and turned to look at Obi-Wan as if he were seeing him for the first time, reassessing his worth. “And having lived here all my life, I can vouch for it. But you didn’t answer the question.”

“Coruscant,” Obi-Wan offered, throwing the mechanic a bone. It wasn’t a lie, and Coruscant was the center of galactic trade and politics and most travelers had gone there at least once. It was specific enough to be convincing and vague enough to protect his identity while planetside. Though, as Anakin had pointed out, Core world business didn’t usually find itself in the Outer Rim.

“Coruscant,” Anakin exclaimed, coming to a screeching halt in the hallway. Obi-Wan was taken aback by the sudden burst of youthful energy. “You have to tell me what it is like! I’ve heard only stories, but I don’t know if what they all say are true.”

“Maybe,” Obi-Wan said only, and lead them into Bay C-8. “Preferably after you fix my hyperdrive.”

Anakin flashed him a single, blinding smile before running into the docked ship doors, ostensibly looking for the broken hyperdrive unit. Obi-Wan followed after him and hoped that he didn’t trip over anything too important along the way.

“So how long have you had this ship,” Anakin queried from his place on the floor, already removing a panel from the side of the hyperdrive unit. Obi-Wan waved a hand in front of his face, coughing slightly at the smell of burnt rubber and the metallic smell of scorched durasteel. “Oh, and I never caught your name.”

“Ben. And not long, maybe a few months,” Obi-Wan answered, though this was a partial lie. The cargo that this ship carried didn’t fit in the Jedi transport his padawan had taken back to the temple, so the Bothan government had given them another ship as a gift.

“It’s a pretty new ship and asides from being shot to hell, I can tell that the drive is fresh off the production line,” Anakin observed. “I’m surprised that it blew up.”

That was interesting, Obi-Wan noted. It might have reeked of sabotage to the paranoid mind.

Paranoia probably kept people like him alive in the worst situations.

“Yeah, you’re really not going anywhere with that hyperdrive. It would be cheaper to find a replacement unit than to create all the broken parts from scratch.” Anakin straightened from his crouch beside the slightly smoking unit as Obi-Wan let out a long-suffering sigh. “I can tell that some other systems have been fried as well,” he commented, pulling at some of the broken wires behind the ship’s panels. He fingered a yellow and red wire, both snapped, in between his gloved fingers. “Inertial dampeners. Your comm system’s blown, too.”

There went his plans of trying to contact the Council with his report. They knew he had already left Bothawui having been successful with the negotiations, but here on Tatooine there was little he could do to update them on his situation. It was possible that he could attempt to fix the comm himself, which would cut costs, but would take him longer than a professional mechanic. It was unlikely that he would find a secure comm channel on Tatooine to update them or contact them for help. With luck, they would be able to retrace his steps to Tatooine, but he wasn’t banking on it—it was difficult to track hyperspace jumps. That may have been handy for quick getaways, but not for stranded Jedi.

Stranded. Obi-Wan removed his face from his hands.

“How much is this going to cost me?” Obi-Wan prayed to the Force that he had enough emergency funds to cover this disaster. Anakin peered at him from beneath his blond fringe, already putting away his tools in his utility belt.

“I can’t give you a solid estimate, you’d have to ask my boss, but I would estimate something around 30,000 credits if you bought a new hyperdrive from the market.”

Obi-Wan’s fears evaporated immediately, although some lingering apprehension remained. The funds from the Council didn’t cover it, no, but together with the monetary gift to the Order from the Bothans it _would._ It would be a matter of convincing the mechanics’ supervisor that the trouble wasn’t worth more than the attempted extortion.

“Thank you, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, and thought Anakin looked far too pleased for a simple ‘thank you’, which in turn, reminded him of what planet he was on and how quickly he wanted to be off it. “Let’s get that estimate from your boss, then.”

 

* * *

 

“I’m only paying for installation costs since you can’t supply the hyperdrive,” Obi-Wan argued, and had been at it for at least a quarter of an hour. “And I could just as easily fix the other problems by myself. 15,000.”

“We could repair the hyperdrive for 35,000,” the Twi’lek shot back, hands twitching. But Obi-Wan wasn’t famed for his skills at negotiation for nothing.

“That is far above the price of a new engine. I have it on good authority that HWK hyperdrives in the Tatooinian market aren’t uncommon,” he said, relentless. “Provided that I’m not down on my luck and cannot find one on the market, creating the parts should not be worth the market price of a new engine.” Obi-Wan sensed it in the Force before it happened.

“Fine,” the supervisor spat, looking like he’d smelt something foul, the familiar look of a man who had never been on the side of a losing argument before. “28,000 to create a new engine.”

“It’s all I could have asked for,” Obi-Wan said pleasantly, satisfied at his second success at thwarting the efforts of yet another duplicitous merchant. “I’ll return within the next two days to report my success or failure in finding the engine.”

Anakin, for his part, had been watching the back and forth between his master and the offworlder with compounding fascination. As Obi-Wan turned away, Anakin ran up to him, catching him by the exit.

“That was so wizard,” Anakin enthused, stars in his eyes. “I’ve never, never seen Rol give in like that! How did you…”

“It just so happens that in negotiations, if you're patient enough to wait your opponent out, they’ll give you an opening.” Wisdom imparted from years of experience negotiating with stubborn governments. “In this case, he would sooner have punched me than to continue negotiating in circles, and he agreed mostly just to get me off his back.” Obi-Wan mused that his style of negotiation was much like his skill with Soresu, outlasting another before a weakness revealed itself.

“Thank you for your help today, but if you’ll excuse me,” Obi-Wan continued before Anakin could say anything else, gently pushing past him to the bay doors.

It wasn’t that he wanted to get rid of Anakin. It was just that he was quickly growing uncomfortable with the knowledge that he was talking to a slave. Anakin was pushy, talented, and for a lack of a better word, _radiant_ in presence. He couldn’t say that Anakin was innocent having been raised in slavery all his life, but it made Obi-Wan wonder what he would have grown up to be like free in Republic space.

Down that road lead to dark things. Obi-Wan could not suffer attachment here, of all places.

Anakin jogged up to his side. “I was thinking,” he drawled in that local Tatooinan accent, “that I could help you find that hyperdrive engine. You’re probably going to need some help navigating the local markets tomorrow.”

Obi-Wan let his brows furrow down in protest. “I’m sure I can find my way around the markets well enough. Besides,” he said, pointedly, “don’t you have to work?”

“He can’t fire me,” Anakin said with too much mischief to be accidental. Obi-Wan grimaced at the mention of Anakin’s status again. Then, again; “I want to help, please.”

“Why are you so interested,” Obi-Wan muttered, almost to himself. Anakin had clearly taken this as acceptance as he let out a small sound of victory. If he were honest, he could have used the help if the boy’s offer was truly genuine. He could feel the other’s joy through the Force, strong even if muffled behind his mental shielding.

Anakin let a solid three seconds of pause pass between them before he opened his mouth again. “So, where’re you staying for the night?”

Obi-Wan shot him a curious look. “The ship, where else?”

“You can’t stay there,” Anakin said absentmindedly, like he was remembering something.

“Why not,” Obi-Wan asked, nonplussed. Was Mos Espa one of those ports that required personnel to find lodgings outside of their ships?

He didn’t need to wonder long, as Anakin confirmed his suspicions. “They don’t let crews stay on their ships overnight here.”

“Is that so,” Obi-Wan said with no small amount of sarcasm. It was just as well; he could probably find a cantina, and if he talked to the right people, maybe find some sort of secure communicator.

Anakin looked like he was considering something before he turned to Obi-Wan with a decisive look in his eyes. “You can stay with me.”

The offer caught him off-guard and Obi-Wan actually physically faltered before he regained his balance. “Thank you for the generosity, Anakin, but surely the local cantinas supply room and board at reasonable rates.”

“My place is closer, and we could go to the markets together first thing in the morning. Besides,” Anakin said, cheekily, gesturing at the exit to the streets. “there’s a pretty bad dust storm going on.”

Obi-Wan wondered when he started losing arguments after so much success at winning them. Resigned, he nodded, but not before discreetly withdrawing a small device from his belt and flicking the switch on.

 

* * *

 

Obi-Wan had gotten more than enough sand in his collective orifices for a lifetime.

He and Anakin stumbled into the small apartment in the slave quarters with some difficulty. He must have been a sight, and was glad that his fellow knights weren’t able to see him furiously spitting out sand like a man possessed.

“You look ridiculous,” Anakin laughed, though he was in no position to laugh himself—sand in his hair, clinging to his tan tunics, and even stuck to his cheeks. Hypocrite, Obi-Wan thought, sourly, as he shook the blasted particles from his robes.

“Master Anakin, I’m so pleased to see you’ve returned safely from that terrible sandstorm outside,” a warbling, metallic voice echoed from the direction of the kitchenette. Obi-Wan turned around, the motion shaking loose a few particles of dust, to find a protocol droid in rusted durasteel. Obi-Wan could tell that it had been built with care, however, although it was missing its left forearm. “I was so worried!”

“Yeah, that’s pretty normal,” Anakin said, patting the droid with a dusty hand and consequently smearing the droid’s durasteel casing with particulate. “The storms and your nagging, that is. Ben, this is C-3PO. Threepio, Ben.”

“C-3PO, human-cyborg relations. Pleased to meet you, Master Ben,” C-3PO introduced itself, bowing at the waist, and Obi-Wan found himself privately marveling at the impressively human-like behavior of the droid. It was positively jarring to see such depth of concern from a droid. Obi-Wan returned the courtesy, bowing back.

“And you as well, Threepio,” Obi-Wan said, and looked up to Anakin shuffling around the small kitchenette, pulling open the cabinets and the small cooling unit that could have been considered a fridge.

“Would you like anything to eat or drink? We have blue milk, and…” Anakin peered into the aged cooling unit. “More blue milk. I hope you like milk.”

Obi-Wan didn’t particularly enjoy it, but he wasn’t going to say that to his gracious host and risk being thrown out into the storm for his ingratitude, although he highly doubted Anakin was that type of person. “Blue milk would be fine, thank you.” At least it wasn’t Hoi broth.

“I’ve got some flatbread and womp rat stew.”

Obi-Wan wondered if he could decline the womp rat stew without coming off as the galaxy’s greatest nerfherder. He was almost certain that the nutrient capsules clipped to his utility belt tasted better than womp rat. He immediately chastised himself for his reluctance—he had never tried the dish before, and the taste could possibly even surprise him.

 _I am a Jedi,_ Obi-Wan thought loudly, _Jedi do not focus on the material._

“That would be great, thank you,” Obi-Wan replied with more sincerity than he actually felt. How many worlds’ cultures had forced him to indulge in their local cuisine? Force, being a Jedi practically equated to food critic on a resume.

Anakin looked impressed despite himself as he set down the containers on the dining table. “And I was so certain you would decline.”

So that was how it was going to be. He was going to be verbally aggravated to death by an impudent teenage slave from Tatooine.

In lieu of calling Anakin out for his insolence, Obi-Wan came over to his side, peering at the containers. “Would you like some help with that?” Anakin turned around and placed the containers in the microwave and then spun him around to herd him to the dining table.

“Who’s the host here? You just sit down; stew’ll be ready in a sec.” Obi-Wan sat down at the worn wooden table as Threepio poured him a glass of blue milk with his single appendage, tittering over him all the while. Obi-Wan smiled gratefully at the protocol droid and sipped at his drink. Anakin came back over with the heated containers, followed with bowls and cutlery. He dished out the steaming, brown stew in equal portions and laid a piece of flatbread on the brim of each dish. He slid one of the dishes across the table into Obi-Wan’s hands.

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan said, and observed that Anakin had given him the bowl with slightly more stew. It could have been a goad or simply courtesy, he couldn’t tell. Despite the foul nature of the creature itself, the stew itself smelt surprisingly fragrant. Anakin raised his eyebrows at him over the loud consumption of his stew and flatbread. Obi-Wan threw caution to the wind and crammed the spoon in his mouth.

It wasn’t bad at all, and he was still alive. In fact, it had tasted better than some other dishes he’d had containing less suspect meat. He let out a relieved sigh and continued eating at a more sedate pace.

“Told you,” Anakin grinned over his dwindling piece of bread, and Obi-Wan rolled his eyes at him. “Mom’s recipe. She made anything taste better than it really was.”

Obi-Wan didn’t want to pry, but Anakin had brought it up. “Is your mother here?” He wondered if Anakin was in the habit of bringing home strays and if his mother minded.

Anakin’s smile didn’t falter; if anything, he seemed to glow with the question. But Obi-Wan could feel the positive emotion had been tempered with bitterness. “No, she was sold to a moisture farmer some six years ago. From what she told me, though, he freed her as soon as he bought her and even married her. I can’t leave the city, but she used to come by every few months.”

Oh, now he was definitely prying, but he couldn’t help himself. “What do you mean by ‘can’t leave the city?’ Did she stop coming?”

“Going past the city boundaries means that I probably lose a limb or two,” Anakin explained inelegantly, almost flippant with the knowledge. It was clear that he had long since accepted this grisly facet of his existence. Obi-Wan held back a grimace and set down his spoon, appetite lost. “Chips are fitted somewhere on our bodies, and we’re not supposed to know where. I think my mom was able to have hers removed, though. And I think,” Anakin paused, “I think that she was told not to come to the slave quarters anymore. We’re not supposed to live in luxury, and she was bringing me food and other things.”

“You’re not sure? You haven’t kept in touch then?” Obi-Wan’s soup was growing proportionally colder to his growing interest in the conversation.

“No.” A pause. “But I have been building a short-range communicator.”

“A commlink?”

“Maybe I could get it to her, somehow,” Anakin said wistfully, leaning back into his chair and folding his hands over his stomach, satisfied with his meal. Anakin’s pale blue eyes suddenly fixated on Obi-Wan with a peculiar intensity. “I know you’re dying to ask, so go ahead.”

The edge of Obi-Wan’s mouth twitched upwards, independent of his will. “Seen right through me, huh.”

“Yep,” Anakin said, popping the ‘p’ and letting the feet of his chair clatter back to the ground.

“Then I have to wonder why you want to help me so badly,” Obi-Wan said, carefully using the Force to observe any change in his host’s emotions. Instead, he was gifted with a change in facial expression. It was the first serious look he’d seen on Anakin’s face since he’d met him.

“I feel like I know you from somewhere.” Obi-Wan couldn’t sense anything in the Force except genuine honesty, which puzzled him. “Or at least, I should know you. And that I should be helping you.”

Somewhere in his mind something clicked, but Obi-Wan couldn’t yet figure out _what_ it was. He had visited Tatooine with Qui-Gon years ago during that nasty affair with Naboo and the Trade Federation blockade. But he had not once stepped into the city proper and had remained with the ship and its crew. They had not been able to repair the hyperdrive of the Nubian ship, instead discreetly purchasing another ship and flying back to Coruscant in that craft.

It was all very déjà vu, came the miserable thought, what with all this business of broken hyperdrives and valuable cargo.

He knew he should have pushed further, but intuition told Obi-Wan that Anakin knew no further intentions outside of a genuine desire to help.

“I’ll accept that.” _Even if I don’t understand it._ Obi-Wan continued to finish his now cold soup, not wanting it to go to waste. “Well, thank you for all that you’re doing for me.”

“Don’t mention it.” Anakin swept up their dinnerware to be put into what looked like a homemade sonic dishwasher. Of course Tatooinian natives would be conscious of their water usage. “You can probably sleep in mom’s room. Threepio, is the room ready?”

 

* * *

 

Later that night as Obi-Wan stared blearily at the ceiling of his borrowed room, grateful for the reprieve in the day’s hectic events he had carelessly relaxed his mental shielding.

And promptly sat up with a gasp.

_Anakin was Force-sensitive._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm starting to think that i'm incapable of writing sad fiction. i should be studying, oh man should i be studying. but i just spent the last four-ish hours planning this and damn it, i love star wars and this god damn pair makes me feel so alive.
> 
> let me know what you think, and i'm always open to new ideas!


	2. honesty is the best policy, most of the time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which obi-wan tries to do the right thing (™), fails miserably, and anakin just loves this stupid man a little bit more for it. 
> 
> (and quietly hates his shawl.)

Ben was, and at the same time _wasn’t,_ the man of his dreams.

He stopped on his circuit back home to find refuge in the shade of a factory, quickly scribbling the price listed by the last ship merchant he’d seen in his work notebook. _14,000 creds, absolutely shit._ That would have been the fifth shipyard he’d visited today—Mos Espa really wasn’t lacking in HWK hyperdrives as he’d suspected, and fortunately for Ben, they were all within spitting range of 16,000 credits. And Anakin had taken the opportunity to snag a few pieces for his personal projects, himself. He might even have had enough parts to even fix Threepio’s arm, now.

It had been, all things considered, a very good day so far.

Anakin straightened up from his slouch against the building to replace the notebook in his belt pouch, jealously keeping a hand over the bag full of spare parts in case of thieves. They always seemed to know who was and wasn’t a slave, who to pick on if they didn’t want to stir up trouble.

Anakin didn’t usually have this problem, but, ah, look what happened to poor Threepio the last time Anakin took him out. He just wasn’t the same, after.

For a lack of better things to do—not that there was much to do on Tatooine—Anakin’s mind wandered back to his temporary houseguest.

It wasn’t like he was in the habit of taking in strange offworlders, what would his mother say?

Ah, no, he knew what she would have said.

 _Ani,_ she would say, with that gently exasperated look only a mother could know. _What have you done now?_

That was the question of the hour, Anakin mused to himself. A good one, and one that he really didn’t have an answer to at the moment.

The only thing he really knew was that he’d been waiting to see Ben appear before him the moment he knew he would be working at the spaceport, green eyes wide as he watched Anakin make a fool of himself just to catch a glimpse of the figure that haunted his dreams for the last three years. And before he knew what he was doing, he was inviting him over to stay with him, casual as you please, for the express purpose of wanting to learn more about the man in the flesh.

It was hard not to compare dreams and reality. Ben was simultaneously younger and older than some of the iterations of himself he’d seen, and significantly more cranky in the desert climate. And despite never having met him in his current iteration before—disgruntled, sandy, and wearing an atrociously patterned shawl—his presence was as unmistakable as it was magnetic. Anakin was certain that he could recognize him in any disguise; dusty and garbed in desert-appropriate tan, in cream colored robes in front of a backdrop of a shining world he’d never seen before, young, braided and hopeful. Different faces of the same man.

Over the years, Ben had become something of an icon, a warm memory of a smiling man to look forward to after long days at work and missing his mother.

But he didn’t like thinking about his dreams, no matter how interesting they were compared to life as it was.

Anakin let out a sigh, patting down his scratchy, tan robes to loosen the sand that had found their way home in the folds. Nobody else had delusions about people they’d never met before or versions of yourself as a _Jedi,_ of all kriffing things to be.

He had to have been projecting. Too hopeful for his own good. That was what all his friends told him, and although his mother hadn’t said it, he felt like she shared the sentiment. She was just too kind to say it.

Perhaps it was too much to hope, then, that he would be able to free himself before Ben left.

A glimpse of something colorful caught his eye, and Anakin idly wondered if Ben liked Muja fruit.

 

* * *

 

Anakin returned home with armfuls of scrap and food and significantly fewer credits to his name than he was normally comfortable with.

“Master Anakin!” Threepio gushed, metallic arms waving fretfully, and Anakin had to fight down a wave of affection for the droid. Threepio really was too good for this world. “Oh dear, let me help you with that!”

“Thanks, Threepio,” he said, handing the lighter bag of groceries to Threepio’s outstretched hand. “I managed to find some nice pieces out there too, so I might be able to fix you a new hand soon.”

“I would be ever so grateful,” Threepio said, as he turned to place the package on the table to sort through. “Sometimes I feel like I can still feel it, but I know it’s not there. How distressing!”

“That would be phantom pain,” Anakin commented, returning from setting the bag of scrap in his room where he was less likely to trip over something sharp. “Ben hasn’t woken up yet?”

Threepio thoughtfully set a dish with four of the Muja fruit he’d bought on the dining table, knowing that he hadn’t eaten since he’d left early that morning. Anakin seated himself at the table, eager to start in on a late breakfast. “No, he must have been dreadfully tired.”

“Nearly crash-landing might do that to you,” he said, picking up a particularly large orange-colored fruit. How lucky he’d gotten, to find _actual_ fruit on Tatooine. “It’s almost noon. Mind checking up on him for me?”

Anakin watched Threepio shuffle off in the direction of his mother’s room and felt a small amount of guilt for poor Ben, who would be subject to Threepio’s unique brand of wake up calls. It should have been a task that he should have taken up himself, but _kriff,_ was he a walking human disaster when he was nervous. Ben didn’t deserve that, and bless his mother for putting up with twelve years of it.

A badly muffled shout echoed from the room. As if in sympathy, a startled yelp matched it. Ah, there it was.

Anakin looked down and absently traced the wooden lines of the dining table, abruptly feeling a sharp pang of longing for his mother, something he was as familiar with as the tools he kept clipped to his belt. After his mother left with the moisture farmer, he’d become somewhat of a recluse, shutting himself out from all his friends and only coming out to work for Watto. Young, he suffered under the irrational anger at his mother for leaving and at Watto for selling her. Lars, for purchasing her despite his promises to free her, for not being able to free him too so they wouldn’t be separated.

And sometimes he still struggled with that low, simmering resentment in his servitude and her freedom. But she was free, and she was happy, so Anakin Skywalker could never truly be angry at his mother for her good fortune. Not even his petty feelings of jealousy could stop him from loving her, just as she did for him, and he’d had years to come to terms with it.

It was just so long since he’d really, actually talked to someone.

It was like trying to find his voice. He just had to figure out how to be himself again.

Anakin felt a smile rise to his face, hidden behind his fruit, as he watched Ben emerge from the room in that tacky gray shawl and that trademark look of vexation he was coming to be familiar with.

“There you are,” he called out, waving at his guest. “I went shopping a little earlier, so we have some fruit today.”

“Isn’t fruit rare on Tatooine?” Ben asked, sitting across from him and hesitantly picking up one of the brightly hued fruits. “You didn’t have to go out of your way…”

Anakin waved his concerns away, even if he wasn’t wrong. “Nah, there was a sale. And I haven’t been eating much fresh fruit lately, anyway.”

“Ah, well, thank you,” Ben said with a small smile, and started in on his own breakfast.

Anakin wanted to apologize for his rude awakening, wanted to make a joke about the weather, of all things, but couldn’t make the words stick. Instead, he said, “I saw several shipyards selling the hyperdrive we need.” Anakin found himself the recipient of an astonished but questioning glance. But Anakin had been looking for _impressed,_ and found what he’d been searching for in the slight upturn of his lips. “I took a look at all of them, even the ones that are in pretty poor condition. I could repair any of them, good as new, so it really depends on how much you want to spend.”

“I’m starting to think that I’ll be indebted to _you_ by the end of this affair, Anakin,” Ben said, tone dry. “You’re really going the extra mile and beyond.”

Containing the tease that wanted to break out would have been an exercise in futility.

“What could I possibly want,” Anakin hummed, smile deliberately sly. “I’m a slave, I know no desires.”

A sense of warm contentment flowed through him as he was gifted with the sight of Ben shocked to the point of speechlessness, an expression he thought he could quickly grow fond of.

“Come on,” he encouraged, magnanimously deciding to spare Ben the difficulty of formulating a response. “Let’s go hyperdrive hunting.”

 

* * *

 

Anakin stood a step behind Ben as he paid for his new hyperdrive from the used ship dealer. While Anakin was wholly confident in his ability to fix up even the worst engines and even improve it beyond its capabilities, Ben had argued that he didn’t fancy being stuck in space a second time, and decided on one of the mid-range condition engines.

“It’s done,” Ben turned around to address him, receipt in hand, looking more pleased than he’d been in a while. He always seemed happiest when he was haggling or negotiating. Anakin could understand that; he’d always been most comfortable around machines. “I’m 15,000 credits short and the owner of a new hyperdrive, so to speak. And they’ll deliver within the day, as it’s early, yet.”

“As long as you’ll let me improve it.” He was still a little frustrated at not being able to show off his skills, and perhaps a little selfishly, being unable to keep Ben with him on the planet a little longer than necessary. He shook his head to clear his head of the thought, immediately ashamed at himself for deliberately wanting to deny his companion his ticket home.

He was quickly getting used to the idea that Ben was perceptive in a way that most people weren’t, as concern flitted across his face. Anakin could feel that he wanted to ask what was wrong, but as if he’d known that Anakin didn’t want to talk about it, he refrained.

“Then we should be heading back to the spaceport,” Ben said, putting the receipt away in the folds of his robes.

“Alright,” Anakin said, and tried to think of ways that he could keep Ben ignorant of the repercussions of his reckless abandonment of his duties. Comfortable with the network of Mos Espa’s streets, he turned to guide them down one of the larger streets that lead back to the spaceport. “This way.”

But he was an eminent procrastinator, and solutions fled him at the moment. Anakin knew that no matter how much he wanted to speak freely with Ben, wanting to draw out that biting, sarcastic side to him, that there was a sort of barrier between them, the type between new acquaintances that he had little hope of breaching. There was an air of mystery around Ben that Anakin knew was intimately tied to the reasons for his arrival, he was sure. He was unlikely to ever be privy to that sort of information, so he decided to bask in the aura of serenity that the other seemed to naturally exude while he could, hoping that perhaps some of it would rub off on him.

“Anakin!” An excited shout from his left. Anakin and his companion turned to face the source of the call, and Anakin found himself wearing a grin he’d unwittingly plastered onto his face.

“Kitster,” Anakin hollered back as he was hauled roughly into a brief embrace. Anakin stealthily dug a hand into his friend’s hair before it could be intercepted. “It’s been way too long.” Months, actually. “Gardulla still working you hard?”

“Don’t you know it?” Kitster replied amicably, finally prying the offending hand from its dedicated task of messing up his hair. “I am so sick of soldering wires and triggers. I know you like working with machines but I honestly don’t know how you do it.”

The grin on his face melted into something soft and genuine as he regarded his long-time friend.  Kitster was one of the only friends from his childhood that had actively reached out and tried to pull him from his self-enforced cycle of resentment and despair all those years ago. He remembered Kitster, about thirteen years of age, banging on his front door and demanding him to get outside and _podrace damn it, Anakin,_ in spite of his personal hatred of the sport and the sight of his friend propelling himself at obstacles at life-threatening speeds.

“Oh, who’s this?” Kitster seemed to finally notice the silent figure behind Anakin. Anakin remembered himself and stepped back to introduce the two.

“This is Ben; an offworlder I’m helping from the spaceport. Ben, my friend Kitster.”

Kitster stuck out an enthusiastic hand for Obi-Wan to take, which he did with no discernable hesitation. “Nice to meet you, Ben. I’ve known Anakin since as long as I can remember.”

Ben nodded. “Ben. To be quite succinct, my hyperdrive decided it was a good time to malfunction over Tatooine. Your friend was kind enough to help me find a replacement.” He turned to address Anakin. “I don't have any plans on my part, so don't let me stop you from having a night out.”

Kitster rolled his eyes, punching Anakin lightly in the shoulder, to which Anakin predictably shoved back. “Sounds like him. Free tonight for a cantina visit, then? Dunno why you’re interested in a broken hyperdrive, though. Your projects are usually a lot weirder.”

“What, like my podracer?” Anakin sniped back somewhat imperiously. “I haven't gotten the parts to fix it yet. But watch, I’ll take my revenge next race on that _sleemo_ Sebulba.” Anakin looked askance at Ben and wondered briefly if he’d be alright on his own for a few hours. “And yeah, tonight sounds good.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kitster waved dismissively, but it came off more fondly than as anything truly disrespectful. “I gotta get back to the factory before Gardulla has my hide. Don't you have to get back to Rol, Anakin?” Kitster’s expression immediately took on a grave quality. “Anakin, you know what happens when you skip work.”

Ben narrowed his eyes as Anakin’s stomach sank. Anakin looked away, pointedly avoiding both of their stares.

“Ah, don't sweat it, Kitster,” he laughed, fingers pinching the sleeves of his tunic. “He was pissing me off anyway.”

 

* * *

 

Tatoo I and II were low in the sky by the time they made it to the spaceport, casting the dock in red-tinted shadows.

The hyperdrive hadn’t been delivered to the dock yet, but Anakin keenly felt the need to fix something settle in his fingertips. He made a move to step towards the ship, but Ben turned to him and held up a hand, the universal sign for ‘wait’, offering him a reassuring smile before heading into the ship himself.

Anakin stood under the open roof of the bay, wringing his hands and resisting the urge to bolt into the ship after Ben, feelings an uncomfortable mixture of worried and anxious.

Ben walked down the ramp looking as calm as ever, but Anakin could tell from the furrow of his brow that something was _wrong._ In his hand was a small, nondescript black device, a small light blinking red indicating its operational status.

“Something’s been stolen,” Ben said without preamble, flowing around Anakin like a man on a mission. “I planted a tracker on the crates.”

“What?” Anakin said, automatically following him out of the dock.

“That was my reaction, too,” he said, wryly, making his way out into the hall at a quick clip. He cast a quick glance down at the tracker, its small, gridded screen pinpointing the location of its partner. “I’m not surprised that the tracker was discovered, but that it wasn’t destroyed strikes me as strange. It _is_ quite difficult to take apart.”

Anakin realized that they were heading towards the mechanics’ bay.

“I—” he started to say, but cut himself off. Whatever Ben found in there, Anakin did not want him to face it alone. But he didn’t know how much help he would be. He didn’t really know how to fight or talk his way out of a mess like Ben could. In all likelihood, he would be a liability in a firefight or an interrogation. And his master…

But he couldn’t leave him.

Even as they neared their destination, Anakin could feel the weight of Ben’s concern for him and he knew that if he decided to leave now, Ben would not have held it against him. But he also knew that the moment he had invited the other back home, he’d made a commitment.

So he ended up making a choice that wasn’t really a choice at all.

He nodded to his partner and they entered the bay together.

“Anakin,” Rol greeted him, all ice and cold fury. “You skipped work again.”

Anakin tried not to look as transparent as he felt, even as his hands decided on their own will to grow clammy and shake slightly. “Yeah.”

“That’s the third time this year,” Rol said, and pulled out a holopad. Anakin blanched at the sight of it, hand involuntarily flying up to the shoulder of his left arm. Peripherally, he was aware that Ben was watching them with a growing, muted horror in his eyes. Anakin closed his eyes tightly against the beading sweat on his forehead—and belatedly wished that Ben didn’t have to see this.

“ _Stop._ ”

Braced as he was for the onslaught of electric agony, he almost hadn’t heard the quiet command. Yet there it was, clear against the race of his own heartbeat.

Anakin opened his eyes to the sight of Ben, hand outstretched in an understated gesture that demanded attention.

But Anakin was more startled to find the sheer amount of _power_ that boiled over around them, charging every single fiber of his being.

Rol’s hand, already en route to its destination on the holopad, immediately dropped onto his lap. It lay there, lifeless, inert, harmless. Ben curled a finger in a downturned motion.

“Who has my cargo? Where is it now?” Ben asked gently, as if the information needed to be coaxed out of a puppet already in the control of its master, a superfluous act that did nothing to camouflage the reality of what was happening.

“Jabba’s men,” Rol said, voice, eyes, all eerily devoid of emotion, “came in, paid us to search and move the crates. Don’t know… where they are now.”

Anakin, who had been watching the scene with a sort of hazy, clinical fascination, observed Ben mouth the name to himself. A number of emotions cycled through: bemusement, recognition, resignation. His heart nearly stopped when he found Ben’s gaze seeking his, and underneath that calm veneer, Anakin was astounded to find conflict warring in his eyes. Anakin met his stare, not knowing what else to do. Something like resolution settled in his expression, and he looked away to refocus his attentions on Rol.

“You will release Anakin,” Ben demanded, and there was very little serenity to be found in this command.

Anakin’s heart leapt into his throat.

“I will release Anakin Skywalker,” Rol complied, re-centering the slave holopad on his lap. Ben’s eyes flickered downward to observe the sequence of commands that secured his freedom. At this point, his fellow indentured mechanics had begun congregating around the scene taking place in the middle of the bay. He felt one of them touching his shoulder, wanting to know what was going on.

“You will release all your other slaves.” Ben seemed to be visually straining with the effort, gritting his teeth together in intense concentration.

“I…” Rol hesitated.

“You _will_ release all your other slaves, and offer them paid positions should they ask.” Ben splayed his fingers outward and Rol seemed to give in, fingers working hastily across the holopad amongst the clamor of the mechanics. He finished and Ben let out an exhale, bringing his arm back down to his side. He looked back at the still, blank expression of the manager.

“You want to go home and rethink your life.” This final gesture was made more carelessly than any of the others, more a statement of exhaustion than anything else.

“I want to go home and rethink my life.” Rol immediately stood up and walked stiffly out of the hangar.

Silence reigned supreme in the hangar as everyone stood still, struggling to digest what had just happened. Ben turned around to face him and Anakin found himself suppressing a flinch. It was badly hidden, and oh, of course Ben caught it.

“Anakin,” Ben said, looking just as distraught as Anakin felt. “Anakin, I need you to trust me and come with me. I will explain everything.”

In his confusion and fear — of who? Ben? Of how he’d suddenly become the most dangerous thing in the room? — Anakin didn’t know when his hand became firmly ensconced in Ben’s own, how he was steadily being guided out of the hangar.

He was… what was he, now?

Adrift, he concentrated on the feeling of Ben’s hand in his own as havoc broke out in the hangar behind them.

 

* * *

 

“My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Ben said, gently pushing Anakin down by the shoulders to sit against the wall of the empty C-8 hangar. “I am a Jedi Knight from the Temple on Coruscant.”

_A Jedi. Kriffing hells, a Jedi?_

“Do you know who the Jedi are?” Ben, _no_ , Obi-Wan said gently. Anakin tried to reply with something that didn’t sound completely stupid.

“The Jedi are heroes,” Anakin said and suddenly felt like he was six again, reciting the names of tools and common mechanical parts to his mother with the hope that he’d answered correctly. “They travel across the galaxy, helping people.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Obi-Wan affirmed, maintaining his level tone. He moved to lean against the wall as well, sliding down to sit cross-legged on Anakin’s right, the edges of his shawl brushing lightly against Anakin’s fingers. “We are peacekeepers. We travel the galaxy, resolving disputes by methods of negotiation or when necessary, by force.”

“Then you came here to free slaves?” Anakin demanded, completely forgetting that Obi-Wan had not landed on Tatooine by choice, momentarily blind with hope as he was. Obi-Wan turned his head away from Anakin, unable to meet his gaze. His shoulders slumped and hunched together in defeat and a bizarre, self-directed disappointment.

“No, Anakin, I didn’t come here to free slaves.”

“Then what was that in there?” Anakin pressed, finally letting the embers of his passion flare into a wild, burning desperation. “You did _something_ , and that hardly counts as ‘not freeing slaves’!”

For all his restraint, this seemed to touch a nerve within Obi-Wan. “It was a _mistake!”_

“Mistake?” Anakin repeated, pained.

“What were you thinking, skipping work like that?” Caught up in his fervor, Obi-Wan completely missed the stricken look of his companion. He continued, fixing an accusing gaze on Anakin. “You are a _slave_ , Anakin, have you absolutely _no_ sense of self-preservation?”

 _Forgive me if I was just excited to finally meet you!_ Anakin readied himself for a retort, but the belated realization of his new, free status hit him hard and fast, blindsiding him completely and utterly.

“Not anymore,” he breathed, breathless with wonder.

Obi-Wan reeled back, and all the rage he’d had directed at Anakin seemed to drain out of his posture. “I’m sorry, I haven’t been quite myself the last few days,” he apologized, letting out a sigh. He tipped his head back to meet the stucco of the wall. “It’s… it’s a good day for you and I’m ruining it.” Obi-Wan crooked his head to look at Anakin, eyes gentle. “Congratulations.”

Anakin couldn’t hold it in anymore. He reached over and caught Obi-Wan in an embrace that startled the other and served to hide the tears that threatened to appear. “Thank you.” And damn, didn’t that sound way too watery for his liking?

Obi-Wan was tense under him, but after a moment’s hesitation he reached around to reciprocate. “You’re welcome.”

As soon as he was sure that he wasn’t going to look like he was going to explode with emotion, Anakin withdrew from him, thoroughly mortified.

Obi-Wan waited patiently for him to gather himself, carefully looking away and focusing on the ship. Once Anakin felt like he’d regained some semblance of calm, he valiantly made another attempt to speak. “If you didn’t want to free slaves, why did you free me?”

“I suppose I knew what was going to happen all along—I could hardly have expected a slave to shirk his duties without punishment,” Obi-Wan said, regretful. “But I didn’t know how to tell you to go back to work without feeling like I was ordering you around. A grave mistake on my part. I shouldn’t have let discomfort get the best of me.”

“It worked out for the better, didn’t it?” Anakin protested hotly, wanting to take Obi-Wan by the shoulders and shake him until he saw sense. “You freed me, and all the other slaves too!” Softer, and with dawning realization, he murmured, “you could have let me be punished, and nothing would have changed, but you didn’t.”

“Force damn my bleeding heart,” Obi-Wan said miserably, like he’d lost an important battle.

“You did the right thing,” Anakin stressed, with feeling. He wished more than anything that Obi-Wan could see it the way he did.

“Just tell me something,” Obi-Wan said after a moment. Anakin looked up to find himself the subject of deep contemplation. “What was so important about my cause that made punishment worth it? Was it really just a feeling?”

Anakin wanted to seize up, to shrivel up and die on the spot. He didn’t like talking about his dreams, he really didn’t. He’d confided his dreams to his mother, once, and she’d taken him into her arms and looked at him with such tender sympathy that he immediately knew that his strange dreams weren’t normal. When they’d found out that she would be sold to the moisture farmer, Lars, not a week later, he knew that what she felt had transformed into a melancholic pity. He never wanted to see her, or anyone else, look at him like that again.

And to admit to Obi-Wan that he’d seen him long before he’d actually met him struck him as faintly creepy. What if he came off as some kind of _stalker_?

But there was something about the look in Obi-Wan’s eyes that told him that he was looking for something specific. And that he would accept what Anakin would say without remonstration or judgment.

“I knew you were coming long before you arrived,” Anakin blurted before sense could reassert itself. As if talking faster would end his embarrassment sooner, all at the cost of eloquence. “I have… dreams, of things. Things that happen in the future. Sometimes when I podrace and I'm this close to an accident. I saw you in my dreams for the first time, years ago, and you were still wearing that stupid shawl yesterday, so I knew it was you and I knew it came true.”

“Stupid,” Obi-Wan repeated, briefly indignant, before immediately looking dumbstruck. “Force visions. You have _Force visions?”_

“You say that like it should mean something to me,” Anakin said, sarcastic. But in truth, the full force of his attention was on Obi-Wan, who looked like he wanted someone to tell him that this was all just a bad dream.

“And all of these dreams, they come true?”

“Well, you didn’t refuse the womp rat stew,” Anakin snarked and Obi-Wan shot him a practiced look that spoke of long years of experience silencing young children. Properly chastised, Anakin sat back and tried not to look too petulant.

“The Force works in mysterious ways, always in motion the future is,” Obi-Wan sighed, and it sounded like an oft-quoted saying. “I expected you to be receptive to the nudges and calls of the Force, but to have Force visions, and with such regularity…” Obi-Wan placed a hand on Anakin’s shoulder, as if wanting to ground him for what he would say next. “Anakin, you’re Force-sensitive.”

His whole world threatened to drop out from under him.

So the _visions_ about him being a Jedi were actually possible?

“I could be a Jedi?” Anakin said, voice tight and so heavily saturated with hope.

 “I…” Obi-Wan’s fingers tightened only minutely on his shoulder. “No, the Temple doesn’t usually accept initiates past the age of three. There’s very little hope in the Council accepting a teenage initiate.”

“Oh,” Anakin said, and suddenly he didn’t want to hear any more about the Jedi or about a possible future that was completely closed off to him. Some of his visions hadn’t come true, after all.

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan whispered, and Anakin was grateful to hear the sincerity in his apology.

“It’s fine,” he said, and meant it. All of him wanted to argue the point, to childishly yell out that the rule was _unfair,_  but rationally, he knew there was little sense in reaching in vain. Even if Obi-Wan agreed with him, and he didn’t, Anakin couldn’t make him go against the entirety of his Order on Anakin’s behalf. He couldn’t pretend it didn’t hurt, though, and Anakin knew that he’d always had a habit of wanting more than he could have. But freedom, that was priceless, and Anakin thought he could go through life grateful for just this one thing.

“Thank you for your help so far,” Obi-Wan said, retracting his hand and leaving Anakin feeling strangely cold. “But you don’t have to convince yourself to help me, anymore. It’s my mission, I need to see if I can get the cargo back by myself or contact the Council—”

“No, shut up,” Anakin said, and he would argue _this_ point. “I had these visions for a reason, and there’s no way you’re getting rid of me that easily.”

Stunned by the intensity of his declaration, Obi-Wan protested. “I freed you, but you don’t owe me anything.”

“No, I don’t.” Anakin really did take Obi-Wan by the shoulders now, shaking him slightly as if it would drive the point home. “I’m doing this because I want to, damn it. I _want_ to help you.”

Obi-Wan let out a soft, slightly hysterical laugh, placing a disbelieving hand on one of the wrists holding him in place. “What did I do to deserve you?”

“Something good, I hope,” Anakin smiled, hoping that levity would put the other at ease.

Obi-Wan sighed, hand slipping down to the elbow of Anakin’s arm. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here with me.”

For the first time, Anakin felt like he was seeing the man without the filter of the rose-tinted glasses of his visions. And he found that he liked what he saw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> making my way downtown, plot goes fast, faces pass, and i’m homebound. did you expect anakin to be freed so quickly, haha?
> 
> i actually wrote half of the whole thing from obi-wan’s point of view, sat there and marinated in feelings of unfulfillment for a stunning five seconds, and then immediately turned around and spat it out from anakin’s point of view.
> 
> things tend to move quickly here! thank you so much for all for your support, there’s just been so much of it and it’s all been super encouraging!
> 
> as always, i am open to suggestions and feedback, and please let me know about any mistakes or plot holes because i am literally always going back to fix those, how embarrassing.


	3. sympathy for the damned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it’s the start of something beautiful. it’s the team.
> 
> (and they’re finally in that bar!)

Obi-Wan was waiting for Mace Windu to fall out of the sky and strike him down.

All right, that was an exaggeration.

Obi-Wan was waiting for Qui-Gon to rise from the grave, laugh at him with a clap on the back and a ‘ _remarkable, padawan, it looks like you did learn something from your old Master._ ’

Anakin was starting to look at him oddly, shades of concern painted brightly across his face. Obi-Wan waved a hand in a motion to indicate that he was all right. Anakin narrowed his eyes at him in consternation before deciding against interrogation and returning to his drink, but Obi-Wan could see him watching from the corner of his eye.

It wasn’t all right.

Less than a day on this planet and flagrant offenses against the Code were already the norm. The Force was testing him, he was sure, by placing him on the single planet on the galaxy and pairing him with the single being in the galaxy that could provoke him to compromise his ethics.

He could have said that hadn’t meant to, but that would have been a lie. Obi-Wan knew, deep down, that when he brought Anakin into that hangar that he would have been faced with punishment for his disobedience. But he had also known that Anakin was stubborn beyond reason, and somewhere, _some part of him wanted Anakin freed._

So when Obi-Wan looked up and saw fear reflected in his eyes, the resigned acceptance of his fate, the broken look of a boy whose spirit was so purely radiant and not just in the Force—suddenly, viciously, Obi-Wan wanted to spill everything. The truth, who he was, what he was doing here, what he could do here. He wanted Anakin to ask and be answered, so that his Force-damned bleeding heart could wipe that tragic expression from his face.

Suddenly, viciously, Obi-Wan had known what the Code meant by _attachment_.

And he was making a decision before he’d known it.

Obi-Wan almost _wanted_ Mace to strike him down in penance.

And he was making a face again, because Anakin was squinting at him again through the smoke and the dim lighting of the cantina.

“That’s it,” Anakin declared, pushing away his mug of Jawa juice—watered down at Obi-Wan’s insistence—and swiveling on the stool to face Obi-Wan. “A celebration isn’t much of a celebration when you’re too busy regretting it.”

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to protest. “I’m not—”

“You are,” Anakin said, folding his arms and fixing him with a stern look. “What is it about freeing me that hurts you so karking much?”

“You don’t know the Jedi,” Obi-Wan said by way of explanation, and realized that while they’d had words about this back at the spaceport, they really hadn’t had _words._ For a brief moment, bitterness flared through the Force, making Obi-Wan regret his choice of words.

“No, I don’t,” he said lightly, but it came out unintentionally sharp, the implication of ‘ _and I never will’_ clear in the subtext. “If there’s something about the Jedi that says that freeing the indentured is a bad thing, clearly the Jedi are less noble than I thought they were.”

That stung a little. “The Code—” Doesn’t forbid it, Obi-Wan continued privately. It wasn’t even the action that was wrong. He’d made a decision while he’d been emotionally compromised, and Jedi were supposed to be better than that. “Let’s not talk about it here,” Obi-Wan begged, aware that a philosophical argument of this size would draw the attention of everyone in the establishment and would more than likely be quite explosive.

And while the Code was quite clear, he honestly wasn’t sure where he stood on the matter.

A blasphemous thought.

“Fine,” Anakin almost barked out, feelings already halfway to a stirring irritation. “But I’m not letting this go.”

Obi-Wan sighed, knowing that Anakin would hold true to his promise to the end. Perhaps he would get off-planet before he made good on it, back to Temple where everything was clear-cut and uncomplicated. They sat in silence for a few more seconds, letting the ambient music of the cantina band wash over them before a clatter at the entrance drew both their attentions.

The change in Anakin’s mood almost gave him whiplash. Kitster ran up to them, out of breath and robes in ragged disarray.

“Ana…” Kitster tried to say with what breath he had but failed comically. Trying again, he said, “Anakin, have you heard?”

Anakin looked at his friend curiously and Obi-Wan matched him. “Heard what?”

“A bunch of slaves at the spaceport were freed,” Kitster rushed out, giddy with excitement.

Obi-Wan wanted to grind his face into the bartop and assimilate into the flooring. Of course news would have spread quickly among the slaves. His little stunt had likely cost him his anonymity—if his likeness wasn’t known, it would be known shortly by the most informed parties. At the very least, people would know that there was a Jedi on the planet.

Oblivious to Obi-Wan’s internal dialogue, Kitster continued, “They’re saying a _Jedi_ did it, Anakin!”

“Oh, yeah?” Anakin said, leaning forward in his seat and Obi-Wan knew he would not find a more terrible liar in the galaxy. Unfortunately, Kitster did pick up on this, looking between him and Anakin with increasing suspicion. Anakin tilted his head slightly at Obi-Wan, asking permission, and Obi-Wan sighed. Would Kitster be an ally or perhaps a double-agent for the Hutts? Obi-Wan found it highly unlikely that a slave thought highly of the Hutts. And even if he were coerced by the Hutts into information-gathering, he seemed to be the only one Anakin trusted, speaking volumes for his character. Perhaps he could even learn more about the ruling Hutt establishment from Kitster.

And besides, his bloody cover was blown. Would there be wanted posters of his face all over the city soon? He’d find out sooner or later.

Obi-Wan mimicked the wave he’d sent to Anakin earlier, and Anakin lit up.

“You’re looking at him,” Anakin said gleefully, gesturing grandly at Obi-Wan. Kitster’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “I know he doesn’t look like much, given the shawl.”

“Why are you always on about my shawl?” Obi-Wan said sourly, picking at the fringes of the aforementioned garment. It had been his Master’s, and he’d looked fine in it the first time they’d visited Tatooine.

Huh, Obi-Wan paused. The shawl had made a return trip. How was that for coincidence?

“Is that why you’re helping him, Anakin?” Kitster’s enthusiasm had made a spectacular return, and he was casting none-too-discreet looks at Obi-Wan. “He’s here to free the slaves, isn’t he?”

Why everyone thought he came to free the slaves, he had no idea. Well, it certainly helped that the Jedi had the reputation of being heroes.

That was a thought.

“It would help if I knew more about the Hutts,” Obi-Wan interjected, carefully avoiding the question. Anakin looked briefly surprised before remembering himself. “Who’s in charge, who runs what, who to look out for. Anything you can think of.”

Kitster hummed. “Well, Gardulla owns me, so I could give you some specifics about how she runs things. Anakin already told you about the Hutts, though?” Anakin nodded, curious to see what Obi-Wan was up to. “Gardulla’s no Jabba, but she’s got her grubby fists in virtually everything Jabba doesn’t have a thumb in.”

“What would that be?” Obi-Wan prodded.

It was Anakin who answered, catching onto his line of inquiry. “Gardulla almost monopolizes the slave trade. I used to be her property, too, before she lost me and my mom to Watto.”

“Lost?” That was a potential weakness. “So she likes to gamble?”

“Like everyone else on this planet,” Kitster grumbled, and Anakin grinned at him. Kitster rolled his eyes. “Podracers.”

Obi-Wan brought up a hand to his chin in thought. Although it didn’t relate to Jabba, the new information on Gardulla was interesting. Small as Tatooine was with its isolated cities, Jabba’s influence extended beyond the planet and the Arkanis sector. It was likely that Gardulla operated mostly on a local scale, and if his intuition was worth any salt, there was probably some overlap in the two Hutt crime lords. Resentment, animosity both very likely culprits.

He was brought out of his musings by a sharp exclamation.

“What!” Kitster was clutching Anakin by the shoulders in disbelief. Anakin was laughing, high on whatever was fueling his happiness.

“It’s true!”

“I can’t believe your luck,” Kitster released his friend, finally taking a seat at the bar beside him. “I would say that I wasn’t jealous, but you know that I totally am.” Kitster leaned over the bartop, calling out to Obi-Wan. “You think you can pull that one for me, too?”

“Pull what?” Obi-Wan asked before downing his alcohol. He had a feeling that he would need it.

“Freeing Anakin,” Kitster repeated, like it was obvious.

Obi-Wan sighed. “Unfortunately, that particular trick only works on the weak-minded. Hutts and Toydarians in particular are quite immune.”

There was also a sort of grey area in the use of the Mind Trick. While normal use of the skill wasn’t unusual or even forbidden, the knowledge that he’d used it to impose his will on someone who in turn enforced his will on the unwilling left him feeling an uncomfortable sort of irony.

He watched both Anakin and Kitster’s faces fall and felt a momentary sympathy for the pair of friends. How wondrous was it for them to find such a friendship in the middle of such trying circumstances?

“This still calls for a celebration,” Kitster said, and he had been speaking the truth; Obi-Wan could sense the envy rolling off him. But the emotion was effectively drowned out by a selfless joy for his friend. “Let’s get shitfaced, hmm?”

Anakin let out a sharp laugh, though Obi-Wan didn’t doubt that he was still preoccupied thinking about Kitster’s own status. “Only you, Kitster!”

Obi-Wan sighed and resigned himself to the role of ‘responsible adult’ for the night.

 

* * *

 

They left Kitster in good spirits on Anakin’s part and a promise to keep him updated on Obi-Wan’s part.

“I don’t like lying to Kitster,” Anakin said, once they were out of the cantina.

“I didn’t lie,” Obi-Wan corrected, walking down the moonlit streets of the city. With three moons and two suns, Tatooine was remarkably bright at night. The yellow template of the city was dyed in a gentle violet hue, mitigating the harsh quality of desert life into something more idyllic. “He would have put up a fight, just like you,” he said pointedly to Anakin’s frown, “to try and convince me to free the planet.”

“He would have told you what you needed to know anyway,” Anakin said, obstinate.

“Not everyone has such unwavering faith in me as you do,” Obi-Wan replied, tone as dry and as crisp as the night air around them. Even now as he knew the purpose for Anakin’s help, he still couldn’t profess a true understanding of what those Force-given visions meant. “There’s no point in making enemies right now, when I need the information.”

Anakin pursed his lips, ready for an argument.

Obi-Wan sensed the intent a moment before it happened.

He reached out and grabbed Anakin’s wrist, pulling them both under the cover of a street vending stand, his other hand pressed urgently into his hair to keep his charge from being accidentally clipped by blaster fire.

“These must be Jabba’s enforcers,” Obi-Wan answered shortly before Anakin could voice the panicked question. He unclipped his lightsaber from his belt, thumbing the trigger. “Stay calm and stay down. I sense three of them.”

Anakin nodded, touching the wrist keeping him down with tentative agreement. Obi-Wan let go once he was sure Anakin’s heart rate had slowed enough to ensure compliance, even as he winced at the sound of a bolt flying at the top of the stand.

Obi-Wan nodded once to him and ignited his lightsaber, seeing Anakin’s eyes widen in awe at the sight of the weapon, the blue light of the plasma reflecting in his eyes. Not a moment later, he was Force-jumping over the barrier, literally disarming one darkly-clad assailant and simultaneously repelling the other’s blaster fire with tight, controlled movements. He knocked out the first, who was trying to recover from the sudden loss of his arm with a quick swing of his free arm, free now to pursue the other.

He could see the alarm reflected in the second’s expression, frightened by how quickly he’d subdued her comrade. Obi-Wan knew her resolve, however—she wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

Obi-Wan focused on the continuous fire of her blaster, angling his ‘saber such that he caught two bolts and reflected them back at their owner, catching her in the shoulder in possession of the blaster and the opposing leg. She crumpled to the ground, delirious from pain.

Anakin’s startled yelp from behind made his heart stutter and stop.

The third assailant, positioned closest to Anakin’s hiding place, had flanked him and pulled Anakin upright by the neck of his tunic. He watched Anakin struggle against the grip, but the press of a blaster against his temple made him still instantly.

“Now let’s not be too hasty here,” Obi-Wan said with a confidence he certainly didn’t feel, lowering his lightsaber slightly to show he was willing to talk. The woman, fairly tall for a human, scoffed.

“Jabba wants you dead, Jedi,” she said, moving from behind the stall, guiding Anakin by gunpoint. “but I can see that I won’t be leaving with my life if I tried to kill you. So alive will have to do, if you want your pet to live. Put down your weapon.”

Obi-Wan could see that Anakin wanted to protest, but his self-preservation instinct must have kicked in and he remained silent, instead shooting desperate glances at Obi-Wan.

“Okay,” Obi-Wan said, calmly laying down his lightsaber at his feet and putting his hands up to show he was disarmed. “So you know nothing about why Jabba wants me dead?”

“Why should I? I’m getting paid.” A mercenary, then. No valuable information to be lost here. Obi-Wan let his eyes fall shut in concentration as the mercenary drew closer to apprehend him.

“You wouldn’t accept more to let us go by any chance, would you?” Obi-Wan threw out.

A derisive snort. “More than what Jabba’s paying me? Not likely.”

 _A Jedi is never defenseless when the Force is his ally,_ Master Yoda’s words echoed in his mind. Now at the perfect distance, Obi-Wan reached out and _pushed._

It was clear that the mercenary hadn’t expected it, knees buckling under the weight of the Force push. But to his great horror, her grip on the trigger was touchy, blaster slipping down from Anakin’s temple and firing, grazing above and below his right eye and clipping his arm. Anakin’s presence in the Force was screaming out in confusion and Obi-Wan reached back for him, unconscious of his desire to reassure. Obi-Wan caught Anakin in his arms, sweeping up the blaster and firing off two rounds into the fallen woman’s knees; she wouldn't be fighting again.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan said urgently, shaking the figure in his arms. While the energy shot had cauterized most of the damage, blood was beginning to run down the sides of his temple. Obi-Wan pressed a hand to his cheek. “Anakin, are you alright? I need you to stay awake.”

Anakin opened his eyes through the pain in his temple and his arm, and Obi-Wan could _feel_ it. He could feel the pain, a phantom pulse in mirrored locations on his own body. “I’m fine,” he groaned, sitting up from his place on the ground, sending a shaky smile at his untimely rescuer. “I didn’t sign up for this, I don’t think.” He then grimaced, frowned, and pressed a hand against his eye.

Obi-Wan let out a relieved breath, relaxing his grip and letting the tension drain out. If Anakin was well enough to joke, he was probably fine. “I think it’s past time I explained to you what all this Hutt intrigue is all about.”

He braced Anakin as he stood up against the pain, picking up his lightsaber and the blaster on the way. “Stang,” Anakin swore, agitating the burnt flesh on his arm. “About time.”

“But not here,” Obi-Wan said, eyeing the lightly bleeding flesh and slightly burnt tunic. Clipping the lightsaber back onto his belt, he took off his shawl and draped it over Anakin, who looked at him like he was insane.

“Oh no, I’m not wearing that!” Anakin protested loudly. Obi-Wan couldn’t resist a smile.

“Do you want to go through the streets shocking people with all that blood on you?” Obi-Wan guided Anakin with a hand on the small of his back. “You look good in it, promise.”

The horrified blush coloring Anakin’s cheeks was his answer. It would have been endearing if not for the blood running down the side of his face.

They would do well to get out of the area before they attracted attention. He didn’t know how common firefights were in the city of Mos Eisley, but he was sure that they didn’t want to be here by the time more of Jabba’s enforcers found them. He would also have to be more careful where he showed his face, now.

Anakin was a solid presence beside him, radiant with life in the dark of the night, and Obi-Wan was grateful that they’d walked away from that fight with their lives intact.

With Anakin’s life intact.

 

* * *

 

“The Republic isn’t perfect,” Obi-Wan said, kneeling down and pressing a bacta patch onto Anakin’s right eye. Anakin winced slightly under the application of pressure. “That may come as a surprise to you, having lived in the Outer Rim all your life. But rumors of corruption in the Senate and the extensive bureaucracy required to pass even one law have been running rampant for years.”

“If you know the problem, why don’t you fix it?” Anakin said, gingerly holding out his arm at Obi-Wan’s request. He gently peeled the sleeve from the skin, where it was still letting blood.

“It isn’t that simple,” Obi-Wan said, and held two fingers over the injury, illuminating the reddened area with a blue glow. “It’s how democracy works. Everyone gets to have a say, and that means that debates can run for weeks or months, sometimes years on particularly contentious issues.”

“That sounds really kriffing stupid to me, but I’ve never liked politics.” Anakin watched Obi-Wan’s ministrations with unbridled curiosity. “What are you doing?”

“Accelerating your skin’s rate of regeneration with the Force,” Obi-Wan said, finally removing his hand from Anakin’s arm. Anakin examined it to find it mostly unblemished with only a thin scar for his trouble. “I did a stint back in the Halls of Healing back when I was a padawan. I was a little reckless when I was young and Qui-Gon put me on assignment there for a few months between missions as punishment.” Obi-Wan gently prodded the inflamed skin with his fingers. “It’s a little bruised, but it’ll likely heal within the day.”

Obi-Wan put the medical supplies back into one of the pouches on his belt, moving to the device in the kitchen that functioned as a sonic sterilizer to clean his hands of the blood. Anakin followed him to sit at the table, picking up some of his tools on the way.

“As I was saying,” Obi-Wan said, settling into his own seat across Anakin. “Like you, some have shared the same thought.”

“That the arguing was stupid?” Anakin replied, fixing a hydrospanner into a socket of what looked like a commlink in progress.

“Yes, we don’t quite have a name for them yet,” Obi-Wan said, observing Anakin’s progress with some interest. He rested his chin in his hand, supported by the table. “We’re informally calling them the Separatist Alliance.”

Anakin smiled up at Obi-Wan. “I’m sure this is all classified information.”

“Very,” Obi-Wan smiled back, reaching out and placing his own working commlink on the table. It was a small, silver thing; normally unremarkable but for the way it lit up Anakin’s face like a tree on Life Day. He greedily snatched it up, twisting and turning it in every way possible. “So the Republic sanctioned an information-gathering mission to learn more about the governments potentially behind this Alliance.”

Understanding flashed across Anakin’s face. “Yes, that was me. The Bothan spynet is one of the best places to broker information, so to speak. They keep tabs on everyone. For a price.”

“And then your ship was sabotaged,” Anakin said darkly, as if he was the one personally wronged by the action.

“Yes, you mentioned that,” Obi-Wan said in recollection and watched Anakin pull a singed, black device from his utility belt. Obi-Wan reached out and took it into his hands. “A detonator?”

“I pulled it from the hyperdrive when I was first examining it,” Anakin replied, gesturing at the device with the tip of his hydrospanner. “It’s pretty high-tech, compact and precise. It was meant to take you out, but not destroy your ship in space.”

“I suppose this just fueled your interest.” Obi-Wan looked up from the device to Anakin’s wide grin. Somehow, he knew he was right.

Anakin was terrible at looking innocent, truly. “I was never one to miss out on opportunity.”

Obi-Wan sighed. It was like having an unruly padawan. “The Republic dealt exclusively through Bothan military intelligence. Only those with the highest clearance would have known. That means that either the Hutts have a hold or mole in the Bothan government or that the Bothan government is compromised by the Separatists themselves and dealt with the Hutts to reclaim the reports.”

Anakin had already made stunning progress dismantling his commlink, casing pried off and wiring askew. “You’re sure that this information is legit?”

“I checked the reports myself,” Obi-Wan replied, continuing his observation of Anakin gruesomely gutting his commlink. “Hundreds of conversations between officials, espionage accounts, and more. Information is power, so to speak. What’s contained in those crates is worth far more than just for the purpose of sussing out who’s part of the Alliance.” At Anakin’s look, Obi-Wan elaborated. “Hints of governmental corruption, private double dealings, things of that caliber.”

“And they trusted a single Jedi to take all this important stuff back to Coruscant?” Anakin’s skepticism was heartening, Obi-Wan thought to himself, because it justified his own uncertainties.

“I was technically sent to negotiate the price for the information, although I did resolve some Bothan affairs for the Republic.” Obi-Wan idly swept the loose screws into a neat pile. “Information as valuable as this could not be trusted to be transmitted through the Holonet. The volume of information would likely have raised flags. We didn’t foresee elements of sabotage in the mission, so no backup was given.” Obi-Wan snorted to himself. “Honestly. A trip to the capital of espionage in the galaxy?”

Anakin frowned at him in thought, and Obi-Wan couldn’t help but smile at the ridiculous sight of the bacta patch plastered across half his features. “Sounds like someone back home didn’t do their research.”

That was surprisingly astute. Obi-Wan let out a thoughtful sound. “Well done, Anakin,” he said absently, and Anakin positively flushed at the praise, ducking shyly behind the curtain of his hair.

“Don’t mention it,” Anakin said, vestiges of pride shading his expression. He was already wrapping up his dissection of Obi-Wan’s commlink, deftly reassembling the chips and wires.

“In any case, it’s fairly important that the reports are retrieved.” He found himself fighting a headache. “I suppose it wouldn’t be too trite to say ‘the peace of the galaxy is at stake’, here?”

“Glad to be a part of it,” Anakin said cheerfully, like everything was right in the world and Obi-Wan was going to be promoted to Master and appointed to the Council. Just peachy.

“Thanks for your support.” And he made sure that every ounce of sarcasm was felt in every syllable of his appreciation. “I expect that Jabba will be going through the reports himself and deciding what to broker for money and influence. He won’t be using the Holonet, but that doesn’t give me much time to recover the reports.”

“He probably has the same interest you do with the whole Republic versus Separatists thing,” Anakin pointed out. Obi-Wan nodded in agreement.

“Are there any secure communicators I can use to contact the Temple?” Anakin shook his head in the negative.

“Not really. I expect Jabba is the only one on the planet with a long-range communicator that’s truly secure. Asides from your broken communicator, of course,” Anakin relayed his analysis, and Obi-Wan felt any optimism he’d had to salvage his mission dwindle down into a pathetic shadow of itself.

“I don’t have anything of worth to negotiate with.” Obi-Wan let himself sink back into his seat, exhausted. “Jabba hardly needs the promises of a Republic he doesn’t respect. He already has all the power he needs in the Outer Rim.”

Anakin peered at him through blond hair, setting down his half-finished commlink. His burgeoning excitement was clear in the room. “Does this mean you’re going on an adventure to physically reclaim your stuff?”

Emphasis on the physical, Obi-Wan noted. Youth, always so excitable.

“No, but now that I know that Jabba has a warrant for my death, conflict is inevitable.” Obi-Wan looked seriously at Anakin, and Anakin seemed to straighten in his chair. “I know you want to be involved in this, Anakin, but it’s incredibly dangerous—”

“I know!” Anakin interrupted, slamming his tools down onto the table and pressing closer to look Obi-Wan eye-to-eye. “I know what I signed up for.”

“I can’t protect you,” Obi-Wan whispered, and it was true. He’d let Anakin get hurt, and it was all because the Force had dragged him into this damned mess. The reality of it was staring at him in the form of a white bacta patch.

“Then teach me.” And oh, he was serious. “How to fight. That Force stuff you do; I can do it too. You said I had the potential. Why waste a gift like this? I can _help_ you.”

Obi-Wan reeled back at the implications. “I can’t train someone unsanctioned by the Council!” A partially trained Force-sensitive as strong as Anakin, running unchecked across the galaxy? He had no love for the Jedi and their ideals, what if he went _dark?_

“I know I can never be a Jedi,” Anakin said, and his bitterness had mellowed out into a pervading sadness that Obi-Wan could feel faintly, but just as personally as if it were his own. “But I don’t care. I don’t want to. I just want to help and not be a burden.” Anakin looked strangely desperate, now. “You need someone looking out for you.”

Anakin had been submissive to the whims of life’s decisions so far, Obi-Wan realized. This was his way of fighting back. To be able to learn how to defend himself and decide his own fate. But just how much of it was the will of the Force, if Anakin even believed in it?

How much of the Force’s will was he himself following?

Obi-Wan looked at the wound and soon-to-be scar peeking out from beneath the patch.

“The Force is an energy field created by all living things,” Obi-Wan started, leaning forward and settling on his elbows, watching the dawning realization creep across Anakin’s features. “It surrounds us and penetrates us; it binds the galaxy together.”

He was truly a terrible Jedi. The shades of which he was spoken in the beaming look Anakin shot him, the happiness he felt trickling down through their gossamer-thin bond.

 

* * *

 

“I look kriffing stupid,” Anakin said petulantly from under the red pail, voice echoing in character with how one might sound muffled by a layer of hard plasteel. “Tell me again how this is helping me put hypervelocity rounds in the heads of bad guys, again.”

It took every ounce of Jedi self-control for Obi-Wan to resist laughter. “From what I’ve seen so far, you already have excellent reflexes for an untrained Force-sensitive. But isn’t the best way out of danger to avoid it in the first place?” Anakin crossed his arms, and Obi-Wan lost all semblance of control. “Buckethead.”

Anakin ripped the brightly colored atrocity off his head, righteously indignant. “Alright, I get your point! But lay off the names, old man!” But he was smiling, so Obi-Wan knew he hadn’t taken it personally.

“Bucket back over the head,” Obi-Wan said, and covered his smile with a hand. “Buckethead.”

Anakin huffed and replaced the pail over his head with a huff and a clank, nearly driving Obi-Wan to the point of tears. Younglings had specially designed helmets for this specific training drill, so they hadn’t looked nearly as out-of-place as a tall, lanky teenager huffing and stomping around like an angry bantha in an empty yard in the slave quarters. Anakin’s podracer sat neglected on the sidelines of the lot, suns high in the sky reflecting off the metal with a bright glare in the mostly shaded yard.

“Hands out,” Obi-Wan ordered, laughter still on the tip of his tongue as Anakin thrust his hands out impatiently. Obi-Wan unclipped his lightsaber from his belt and placed it soundly into Anakin’s waiting hands. Astonishment flickered faintly through their fledgling bond as Anakin shoved the bucket off his head, nearly choking himself with the handle as it tipped off his head.

“Your lightsaber?” Anakin said, eyes glittering with wonder as he turned the weapon back and forth in his hands. From what unshielded thoughts he was gathering from Anakin, he was vacillating between wanting to hold it for an indefinite amount of time and taking it apart to figure out how it worked, ever the engineer.

Obi-Wan gave him a trying look, making Anakin flush with embarrassment at his fixation with the vaunted weapon. “Yes, my lightsaber. It will help you in this exercise. Normally, potential padawans would build their own lightsabers before formally beginning their training, but we have neither the time nor the materials.” The fact that he wasn’t a Jedi, Obi-Wan left unspoken. He was sure that Anakin was aware, anyway, and well on his way to acceptance of the fact. Obi-Wan stepped closer, pointing at the trigger with an extended finger. “Now, here’s the trigger.”

Anakin ignited the ‘saber, mouth agape as the weapon was moved back and forth experimentally, buzzing distinctively as it heat and cut through the air.

“There’s an entire lecture about lightsaber safety, but I’ll truncate it down to emitter side away from you at all times,” Obi-Wan said, wondering if Anakin was even paying attention. “Now turn it off and put the bucket back on.”

Anakin did so hastily, excited for what was in store. Obi-Wan pulled out a familiar blaster.

“Alright, I’m going to shoot you now.” Anakin yelped in protest, his hand flying up to remove the bucket obscuring his vision. “No, keep it on. Don’t dodge—use your lightsaber to block all my shots.”

“How can I block your shots if I can’t even _see?”_

Obi-Wan laughed, feeling lighter than he’d been in a while. “Your eyes deceive you; your true sight lies in the Force. Trust in it like you have all your life.”

Anakin let his hand fall from the rim of the bucket, igniting the lightsaber once again. “Shouldn’t I be doing this without the bucket, first?”

Obi-Wan fired off a shot experimentally, making his unfortunate pupil squeal and leap away from the shot. “Not from what I’ve seen from you. You’ve partially trained yourself. Now, use the lightsaber to block, don’t jump away.”

Anakin shakily replaced himself in the center of the courtyard, ‘saber at the ready. “Are you trying to kill me? Get rid of me in a very, very permanent way?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Obi-Wan said, blithe as can be. “I modified this blaster to have a stun function. It just stings when you’re hit.” Obi-Wan fired off another shot, smiling widely as the shot was repelled by the blade. Unfortunately, the bolt came repelling straight back at him and Obi-Wan was lucky his own instincts were just as sharp.

“I don’t trust anything I didn't modify myself,” Anakin said, and it read like a jest but came off completely serious.

Obi-Wan continued to fire from different angles, moving soundlessly with the help of the Force. Anakin performed admirably. For an untrained Force-sensitive, he was remarkably adept.

“Ow!”

For the most part. The shot had clipped him in the chest and Obi-Wan paused his assault to let him recover from the sting.

“You’re a cruel, cruel Master. You know that, Obi-Wan?” Anakin wailed, rubbing the irritated spot with a hand. Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow at the title.

“I’m not your Master,” Obi-Wan reminded him, wondering whether the term had negative connotations for the former slave and why he chose to use it.

“Oh, well, it just sounded right,” Anakin said, deflating slightly. “You seem like the masterly type. And you’re training me, aren’t you? What else could you be?”

“Well, I do have an apprentice back on Coruscant,” Obi-Wan said, nostalgic. He’d only been on Tatooine for two days; that was hardly enough time to feel nostalgia, and he snapped himself out of it.

“You do?” Anakin squawked in disbelief, offense radiating from every pore. He seemed to bristle with jealousy, and Obi-Wan felt absolutely rotten for mentioning the Jedi again. He decided to refocus their efforts with a bolt from the blaster, sending Anakin flailing in his attempt to block the projectile.

_“E chu ta!”_

“How rude,” Obi-Wan said, holstering the blaster. “Well, you managed to block every shot. Excellent job.”

If Anakin had one blind spot in his usually unfaltering confidence, it was praise. He never seemed to expect it, always accepting with a stammer and a startled blush.

Of course he wouldn’t, Obi-Wan thought somewhat acridly. So easy was it to forget Anakin was ever a slave.

“We’re done?” Anakin asked, muffled by the bucket. Miffed at the sound of his own voice, he took off the bucket and flung it to the edges of the yard. He fell to the dusty ground with a sigh, rolling over on his back. “Tell me we’re done.”

Obi-Wan fell into a cross-legged position beside Anakin. “Younglings have more endurance than you do.”

Anakin swiped half-heartedly at his knee, folding his hands over his stomach. “That was low.”

“No, seriously,” Obi-Wan said, prodding at the fallen teen. “You’re going to have to run _drills_ later.”

Anakin gasped. “Are you calling me fat?”

Honestly, he probably didn’t eat enough, but Obi-Wan wasn’t going to voice this particular opinion. Despite this, at his age he already matched Obi-Wan himself in height. Instead, he maintained his silence before deciding on an airy, “No.”

“Don’t scare me like that,” Anakin groaned, rolling over to face him.

“You’re making good progress,” Obi-Wan encouraged, patting Anakin on the shoulder.

Anakin peered up at him through the light of the two suns, and it ended up turning into a squint. “And you? Have you decided what to do about your mission?”

The real question. What _was_ he going to do about his missing cargo? For once, Obi-Wan wished the old adage of ‘ _trust in the Force, it will guide you_ ’ was literally true. He wished that answers would drop screaming from the sky, but here, he was without the guidance of the Council and was receiving mixed messages from the Force in the form of one Anakin Skywalker.

The long-range communicator, Anakin had said, might take him a week or so to figure out. He’d dealt mostly with ship system maintenance and honestly had never dabbled with highly sensitive communications units before, explaining his recent experiments with the commlinks. It was his latest pet project, but he assured Obi-Wan that it wouldn’t take him long to understand.

That was too long, Obi-Wan knew. By then, Jabba would have figured out what to do with the information, and Hutt control of the sector would have strengthened and possibly extended beyond the confines of Hutt space, encroaching on the boundaries of the Republic. Was it possible to reclaim the information under a week? To potentially incite a _rebellion?_

He thought he’d put things like Melida/Daan behind him. It seemed the Force had yet to be finished with him in the way of overturning authority.

Obi-Wan ran a hand through Anakin’s hair, waking him up from his light nap in the sun. “Anakin, listen closely. After this, I need you to find your friend Kitster for me. I need you to round up your friends I freed from the spaceport, but make sure they’re trustworthy, first.”

Anakin’s eyes widened with shock and he sought out Obi-Wan’s gaze with a vulnerable anticipation. “Are you…”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan said. “But let’s see if I can teach you the basics of meditation today.”

Surely a fruitless endeavor, but the exasperated look Anakin was currently sporting easily made his efforts worth it. Perhaps he could even worm in a lesson on shielding.

He shifted in the sand, settling in for the long haul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fic > real life. who needs it, anyway?!! also, star wars isn't star wars unless obi-wan is sending limbs flying.
> 
> i had a lot of fun writing this chapter! if you catch any glaring errors, let me know. i'll flay myself for them later, haha. 
> 
> i appreciate any and all feedback, comments or kudos! drop me a line, don't be shy! i absolutely adore talking to you all!


	4. logistical nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> or: obi-wan, stop playing with my heart!

Anakin built his life around promises.

Most of them small, insignificant in the grand scheme of things. The old one to mom, to remember to eat better, or at least remember to eat at all. Not to skip work more than five times a year, lest he invoke the ire of his former master. To fix Threepio’s arm within the next standard month.

These small victories for himself, here and there, gave his life structure.

Other promises were much larger. Win the next three podraces. Free yourself. Find mom.

Those promises gave his life _meaning_. Something to look forward to. The only way to live in the unfortunate circumstances of his birth, because living any other way, living without the certainty of escape, would surely have broken him long ago.

But promises were hard to keep, he reflected. And although he made each promise sincerely, life moved in unpredictable patterns, plucking choice out of his hands and into the unknown. Promises unfulfilled. Shattered, like the sparkling fragments of a glass window, beautiful but worthless. Once crafted with artistry and intent, but broken—a blow to his honor.

(As a young boy, he’d vowed to his mother that they’d never be apart.)

And yet.

He hadn’t freed himself, but _been_ freed. Wouldn’t need to win the next three podraces. And these promises, he didn’t mind breaking.

Because against all hope, they’d revived older dreams. Older promises made as a child, in simpler times.

Seeing the stars. Becoming an accomplished pilot and seeing new, strange worlds. Every single one of them.

Coming back to free Tatooine.

And as a young boy, he’d never really planned the exact way that might have panned out. But he was living it now and he was _thrilled_.

Because for the first time, Anakin understood what freedom was.

A gift.

In the dusty backlot of the slave quarters, Anakin looked up into the face of Obi-Wan Kenobi and his open smile—and felt an entire world of possibility blossoming in his chest.

 

* * *

 

Instinct allowed Anakin to effortlessly navigate the streets of Mos Espa’s marketplace. Swiftly dodging the reckless driving of landspeeders, the mid-day flow of people scuttling from one end of the city from the other, Anakin took in the sight of the heart of the city with a discerning eye. The market looked no different than it had any other day, he remarked as he took in the mixed sight of traders and slaves milling around the stands, haggling loudly or stacking inventory.

But Tatooine had never looked so beautiful.

It was still too hot and the streets were still filled with peddlers and con artists and it was still sandy as hell, but right now, the planet didn’t feel so much like a prison anymore.

Anakin scanned the market again in search of his friend, who had indicated back at the cantina that he would be in the city on business for a while yet. Kitster was shared property between Gardulla herself and his travelling master, who had paid the Hutt for his time starting from when they were fifteen. Thus, when he wasn’t working in the factories for Gardulla in Mos Espa, he spent a fair amount of time travelling around the cities of Tatooine working with his master in the caravanning and shipping business. It was also why they saw little of each other over the years.

Though, now he could see why Obi-Wan thought it was an advantage.

The smell of nausage stopped him in his tracks. It had been a while since he’d bought a dust crepe for himself, and if he did say so himself, he probably deserved a treat after that grueling hell of a training session Obi-Wan had put him through.

He was a weak, weak man.

Mouth watering, he made a beeline for the stand and placed an order for himself. He was speedily provided with his desired food item, and he paid just as quickly before snatching it up and cramming the wheat-based good in his mouth.

He made his way to the lightly shaded open-air dining area, sitting down on one of the worn stools in front of a wide crate that served as a makeshift table. He was still visible, here, so Kitster would be able to find him.

Making good progress through his lunchtime meal, his thoughts turned toward his other childhood slave friends. Certainly, he wasn’t as close with them as he was with Kitster, but he worried about them nonetheless. Wald and Amee, he knew were still in Mos Espa. If he was correct, when Anakin had been sold—lost, really, given Watto’s gambling tendencies—to the spaceport, Wald had come under Watto’s employ. Amee still worked as a housekeeper for a local couple, though he hadn’t seen her in over a year.

Melee was a fellow mechanic, and was one of the slaves Obi-Wan had freed alongside himself at the spaceport.

It was a wonder that she hadn’t already barged into his apartment and demanded an explanation for what happened. Though, she had tried back at the hangar when she’d tried to get his attention.

Not that he would have been able to explain it to her, then. Though to be honest, he really wasn’t in a position to explain, himself.

He’d just been so busy, lately.

Though he was glad for it, he thought to himself with a secretive smile.

He would find her later, perhaps back at the slave quarters. She would likely be able to help him gather the rest of the team.

Anakin was halfway through his food when he finally glimpsed Kitster looking dirty, exhausted and possibly just on this side of malnourished.

“Kitster!” Anakin waved to his friend, and he could see Kitster stand at attention in the middle of the street spinning around, looking for the source of the call and nearly getting run over by an eopie in the process. Wincing, Anakin tried again. “Hey!”

Anakin watched Kitster navigate the flow of market traffic to reach him, finally slumping into the seat across from him. Anakin wordlessly handed him the remainder of his crepe, which he took gratefully.

“I’ve been running all over the city delivering so much shit,” Kitster grumbled as he tore into the crepe. “Going to be so glad when this is over.” He looked questioningly at Anakin. “That’s what you’re here about, right?”

Anakin nodded, and right then he felt like an inadequate container for his enthusiasm. “Yeah, we think you can help.”

Kitster looked down at the crepe and back up at Anakin. “Be honest with me, Anakin. You trust him?”

Anakin’s immediate instinct to defend Obi-Wan should have alarmed him. “Of course I do!”

The thing was, Obi-Wan was the only person to look at Anakin and see potential. Slave masters looked at him and saw a tool, property to be used. Travelers looked at him and saw something to be pitied. Fellow slaves had looked at him like an anomaly for refusing to accept their lot in life, to live just to get by. Even his mother—the most important person in his life—who had once looked at him all those years ago with so much hope for the future, chafed under the reality of their lifestyle.

Obi-Wan saw a slave. How could he not? Free as he was now, he wasn’t arrogant enough to deny that the scars of his years in servitude would always remain a part of his identity.

But he was the only one to look _twice_. The only one of many with the power to change his fate, and he was the only one to give him a chance.

How monumental was it that despite Obi-Wan’s own reservations about training him, he decided to trust Anakin with it, too?

So yes, Anakin trusted Obi-Wan just as much or possibly even more than Obi-Wan trusted him. He’d never said so, but if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have gone through the trouble to free him.

The warm feeling in his chest had _nothing_ to do with it.

“I trust him,” Anakin reiterated. “And not just because he freed me.”

“I’m sorry for doubting you. I just find it hard to believe anybody is genuinely interested in… you know, _us_.” Kitster smiled, although it looked a little worn. “All right, Anakin. I trust you. And I’ll trust him too. And not just because you two seem to be our only hope.” That was almost enough to make Anakin’s chest swell with pride and self-importance. “You really think I can help?”

Anakin nodded seriously. “Of course. Obi-Wan thinks so, and he’s masterminding the whole thing. Could you meet with us, perhaps later tonight?”

Kitster smiled, cheer returned. Having finished Anakin’s lunch, he looked a lot better than he initially did. “Count on it. I’ll do my best to sneak off after work, I’m technically out of rest days.”

“Great,” Anakin said, giddy with excitement. “Remember that lot in the slave quarters, the one I use to fix my podracer? Meet us there in the evening whenever you can get out. My apartment isn't big enough for all of us.”

“All of us?”

“All of us.”

Yes, Anakin thought. They were going to free the planet, and he then he would find his mother. And she would be _proud_.

 

* * *

 

Anakin returned home later that evening to the sight of Obi-Wan in meditation. He sat in the open air of the small balcony of the second floor, long brown robe moving gently in time with the flow of the desert wind.

“Anakin,” said Obi-Wan, eyes fluttering open and turning slightly at the waist to greet him.

And because he completely lacked a verbal filter, Anakin blurted, “You’re not wearing the shawl.”

“First impressions are everything,” Obi-Wan said, lips quirked up slightly and belying his amusement. Anakin wanted to put his foot in his mouth—if only to stem the tide of bantha fodder that seemed to spew out whenever he was around Obi-Wan. “And what a powerful thing it is. In this case, the need to motivate your fellow slaves is paramount. Validation, even in the form of a Jedi Knight, can inspire others to do many things. We’re going to capitalize on that.”

Anakin could never get over how _manipulative_ Obi-Wan could be. As he himself preferred the straightforward, honest approach, he found the game Obi-Wan played somewhat baffling.

Though Anakin could probably see its merits, he would prefer to leave it to Obi-Wan. Maybe he’d even pick up a thing or two about the art, though he doubted it—whatever Obi-Wan decided, he’d follow.

“Did you find your friends?” Obi-Wan asked, standing up from his position on the floor and providing Anakin with a full view of the uniform of a true Jedi Knight.

The outfit was not elaborate by any means, and might certainly have passed for something Tatooinian in style. Functional and sparse, in earthly tones of cream and brown that spoke of an ascetic philosophy of living sparsely and without luxury. The outer robe flowed with the grace of its model, speaking just as much about Obi-Wan’s character as the style of clothing itself.

It suited him. And even had he not seen this image before in his visions, he knew that this felt right. Obi-Wan was a Jedi, through and through.

Obi-Wan was right. First impressions were powerful.

“See something you like?” Obi-Wan teased good-naturedly, and that certainly didn’t lessen Anakin’s sudden and pervasive need to _die_. “Clearly that means it’s working.”

 _Kriff_ , he couldn’t believe he missed the shawl.

“I did… find my friends that is, but…” Anakin paused. “How do you do that,” he said instead, foregoing business and pushing aside his embarrassment in favor of indulging his curiosity as they both moved into the kitchen. “I mean, how do you know what I’m thinking all the time?”

“Ah,” Obi-Wan said, for the first time in a long while looking truly uncomfortable. “That is a difficult question with a complex answer.”

Anakin turned around from the cupboards, handing a Zucca fruit pastry to Obi-Wan. “Try me.”

“What can I say? You’re an open book,” Obi-Wan said, unable to even resist a small jab. He accepted his dinner with a small gesture of thanks. “Which is half the answer. The other half involves the Force.”

Anakin leaned forward in his seat, interested. Any topic that involved the mystical field of living energy had Anakin’s full attention, period. He might never be a Jedi, but he would be damned if he passed up an opportunity to understand the Force, a concept more enigmatic and beguiling than any spacer legend he’d ever been told.

“I explained this earlier, but you’re not shielding well, which makes it easy for any trained Force-sensitive to read your emotions,” Obi-Wan gestured with his free hand. “It’s not just you. You and I can read any unshielded thoughts from sensitives and non-sensitives alike. I’m sure you’ve had your own experiences learning how to interpret the feelings of others.”

He did, and he’d used it frequently to avoid his former master whenever he’d been caught in a bad mood. He’d used it to negotiate trades with the Jawas for droids when he’d worked for Watto. He’d also guiltily used it to navigate his way through the verbal smackdowns that were the pre-racing podracer exchanges. Sometimes he got lucky and hit just the right buttons to agitate a racer off their game, leading him to a crucial victory.

And taunting was fun. Never let it be said that he didn’t know how to enjoy himself.

“The other answer is that of a connection,” Obi-Wan said, looking faintly troubled. “I suppose it could be useful in a pinch, so you should know. We have a Force bond.”

“A what?” Anakin said, confused.

“A Force bond is a link between two Force-sensitives,” Obi-Wan explained. “It is common and expected among Jedi Master and padawan teams as a means of shared influence, allowing us to transmit thoughts, images, and feeling over large distances. It is as much a tool of learning as it is an asset in battle, and as such, I’m hoping that should you be in trouble, the bond will let me know.”

A connection. He had a _connection_ to Obi-Wan.

He honestly couldn’t say that he was displeased with this development.

“How did it happen?” Anakin asked, and tried not to let too much of his delight show.

“Bonds usually form naturally between individuals over a long period of association or over many sessions of meditation. It’s how Jedi teams usually form theirs,” Obi-Wan paused, setting down his half-eaten pastry. “But they can also form unexpectedly through events.”

“And?” Anakin encouraged, eager to hear the story of how they’d gotten theirs.

“I…” Obi-Wan hesitated. “After I subdued your assailant yesterday, I wasn’t in the most rational state. Understandably, you were confused in the crossfire, and I sensed it through the Force. I reached out…”

“…and I reached back,” Anakin finished, awestruck.

At the time, Anakin felt like he had been in free-fall. Suddenly struck with pain and on a crash course with the fast-approaching ground, Anakin had lost himself momentarily to confusion. Obi-Wan had reached out to him physically, but unable to divorce his priorities in his panic, he’d done so through the Force as well—and Anakin had instinctively reached back, desperate for support.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan said, a grim smile on his lips. “No doubt Archivist Nu would be very interested in this account.”

“Let me guess: before or after the Council skins you?” Anakin grimaced.

“Am I so predictable?” Obi-Wan said, faintly surprised. “I must be. I’m sorry, Anakin, none of this is your fault.”

“Did I say it was?” Anakin said, his frown deepening. “Don’t be.”

Obi-Wan sighed. “In any case, the bond is permanent, and there is no way to break it completely. While I have reservations about strengthening it, I have a feeling that given our close association it is likely a foregone conclusion.” A shadow of a smile passed over his expression as Obi-Wan seemed to laugh at his own private joke. “It might as well serve as an asset instead of as a point of concern. When you get a handle on shielding, we can work on communication.”

“Wait a minute,” Anakin said urgently. “You can’t hear everything I think about, can you?”

Evidently, that startled Obi-Wan out of his mood. “That’s the first thing you think about? I respect your privacy, Anakin, and I actively try not to eavesdrop on your thoughts. With the bond, it’s harder. And sometimes you project so strongly it’s hard not to.”

 _Shielding, shielding, shielding,_ Anakin thought loudly, only to be presented with the sight of Obi-Wan choking on his food.

“Force, Anakin!” Obi-Wan snorted, shaking in his seat. “That’s… that’s not how you shield!”

Despite his mild distress, Anakin couldn’t help but feel warmed by the sight. Obi-Wan really needed to loosen up, and Anakin couldn’t help but love his smile, rare as it was.

Laughter mostly under control, Obi-Wan stifled another laugh as he tried to speak. “Ah, I haven’t laughed that much since Master Qui-Gon put his foot through the training room floor during one of our duels.”

“Qui-Gon?” Anakin couldn’t help but feel like the name was familiar. “He’s the one that trained you, then? Your Master?”

“Ah, yes,” Obi-Wan said, voice half-fond and half-melancholic. “He was a great mentor to me. Though you may be surprised to know that he was a maverick of a Jedi, and his apprentice turned out to be, well. You know.” Obi-Wan gestured at himself, smiling.

“A bit of a stick in the mud,” Anakin supplied helpfully.

“Thank you, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, tone flat but expression amused. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been to Tatooine, you know.”

“Really?” Anakin said, surprised. He’d been treating Obi-Wan as a newcomer to the planet so far. Obi-Wan didn’t strike him as having been raised on the planet, and he didn’t seem to have spent enough time on the planet to have picked up the local accent and vernacular, especially with that pristine Coruscanti accent. To hear otherwise was a surprise, to say the least. It was wishful thinking, but Anakin wondered if maybe they had met once before. He was sure that Obi-Wan had sensed his curiosity, blatant as it was on his face.

“I suppose I could tell you the tale while we wait for your friends to gather,” Obi-Wan said with a glance outside the window. Cliché as it was to meet under the cover of night, they could not afford a repeat incident of the day before. “It’s not a long story.”

“I’m interested,” Anakin said, and he really was. He enjoyed every opportunity to learn more about the world outside of Tatooine, and he especially enjoyed learning more about Obi-Wan, who had most certainly lead a fascinating life as a Jedi.

“Eight years ago, Master Qui-Gon and I were dispatched to negotiate with the Trade Federation, a guild of powerful corporations blockading the planet of Naboo. Long story short, it didn’t go well.” Obi-Wan folded his hands in his lap, looking very much resigned, as if meaning to say ‘when does it ever?’ “We ended up having to stage a rescue for the Queen of Naboo and narrowly escaped—but with our hyperdrive damaged by the blockading fleet.”

Anakin laughed. What were the chances? “Wow, that’s some irony.”

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes. “Yes, well. You can guess that Tatooine was our emergency stop. Much like my current situation, we were searching for a replacement hyperdrive to get back to Coruscant. Though I personally never left the ship, as I had been ordered to watch the Queen. My Master ventured out into Mos Espa, and unlike us, was unable to find a replacement hyperdrive. Instead, he purchased an old freighter, allowing us passage back to Coruscant.” Obi-Wan hummed. “I wonder if the Nubian cruiser is still there, parked in the desert?”

“If the Jawas haven’t gotten to it,” Anakin supplied, thinking about the short, perpetually robed scavengers. Valuable to any mechanic. The true, understated heroes of the planet.

“In any case, we made it back to Coruscant, only to find no Republic support from the Senate,” Obi-Wan continued. “Frustrated, the Queen decided to take matters into her own hands and return to Naboo to fight for her planet herself. With the help of the Gungans. Of course, we accompanied her.”

Anakin wondered what a Gungan looked like. “So you freed Naboo?”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan confirmed. “However, my Master and I were forced to fight a Sith—put simply, a Force-user who actively embraces the dark side of the Force—while the Queen focused on capturing the Viceroy to end the blockade.” Obi-Wan’s tone softened. “And I lost my Master in the fight.”

Anakin really didn’t know what to say. Closing his eyes, he tried picturing the loss of his own mother in an attempt to understand Obi-Wan’s feelings towards his Master… and almost physically recoiled.

An old memory resurfaced: a brief but faded image of his mother in a foreign and dark place, broken and bleeding, flashed before his eyes, and it seemed almost too real to be a product of his imagination. An old fear of his younger self—he had thought himself fearless, looking into the eyes of a Tusken Raider he’d saved. He didn’t, hadn’t ever feared for himself, but…

“I was able to defeat the Sith, but I came very close to Falling, myself, so consumed with rage at seeing my Master struck down,” Obi-Wan confessed, too caught up in memory to notice Anakin’s reticence. “But, with his last breath, he told me that I’d done him proud.” Obi-Wan paused, fingers folding over the cloth of the sleeve of his loose outer robe. “I completed my training under Master Dooku, who had trained Qui-Gon, and was knighted shortly after.”

“I’m sorry,” Anakin ventured, still emotionally thrown by the image of his mother in pain.

Visions, Obi-Wan had said. But not all of them came to pass, he reminded himself. This one, he hoped desperately was in that category, and the thought brought him some comfort.

“I hadn’t meant to talk about myself so much,” Obi-Wan said, a faint hint of disbelief in his voice. “It’s not an unhappy memory for me, truly; only a little bittersweet.” He turned to look out the window. It was dusk. “Ah, how time flies. Shall we?”

As they rose from the table, another piece of the puzzle seemed to slot into place—something about Obi-Wan’s Master reminded Anakin of a strange meeting, years ago, when he still worked for Watto.

But that was then. This was now.

He was glad Obi-Wan trusted him enough to tell him about his life. The Jedi might not have had families, but Anakin figured that the loss of his Master was comparable to the feeling of Anakin losing his mother. And he felt he came a little closer to understanding why Obi-Wan internalized the Jedi philosophy to the point of obsession.

And he wondered, just a little bit, about the things he could do to prevent such a loss from happening to himself.

 

* * *

 

Anakin followed Obi-Wan like a shadow in the night as they made their way to the empty lot where they’d trained earlier that day. The reflected light of the planet’s three moons guided their path through the alleys of the adobe buildings, the chill of the desert night making the passage of time seem longer than it was in reality.

Or perhaps that was just his eagerness speaking. He could hardly believe that, providing everything went well, history was going to be made right here, in his backyard.

And he and his friends were going to be at the forefront.

It was almost surreal. He wasn’t even sure if this was all just a heat-induced hallucination, and he wouldn’t be surprised if it was—it had long been his dream to free himself, then free the planet from slavery. Though the details, he’d never really worked out for himself, never having imagined the possibility of it becoming a reality. But here he was, eternally optimistic, and in the company of someone who could very possibly make it happen.

The hushed chatter of conversation ceased as they entered the clearing.

“Hello there,” Obi-Wan said, stepping out of the shadows. “I recognize a few of your faces, but more that I don’t.”

Anakin remained a step behind Obi-Wan and was surprised to feel a gentle nudge from Obi-Wan, not physical, but mental in nature. _Go on. It would be better if you introduced us._

“You all know me,” Anakin said to the group of approximately fifteen, and tried not to sound as nervous as he felt. “But this is Obi-Wan Kenobi, he’s a Jedi. I’m sure you remember him from the spaceport.” As if anyone could forget that day.

A clamor immediately broke out amongst his friends and former co-workers, echoes of ‘a Jedi!’ bouncing around the courtyard, though not as loudly as they’d expected. Word must have gotten around the city already.

“I knew it!” Melee exclaimed, staring at Obi-Wan in shock and disbelief. She was a girl of small stature and similarly blonde hair, tied neatly up in two functional buns on top of her head. She turned to stare at Anakin, accusing. “What have you done now?”

“Now you sound like my mother,” Anakin complained. Why did everyone think it was his fault?

“ _You’re always the one getting in trouble,_ ” Wald cut in, speaking in Huttese. “ _With the way that you’re always going out of your way to help one person or another._ ” A bold chorus of agreement came from the group, of which all the members had known him for years now, and Anakin knew his face must have been flaming red from embarrassment. What friends he had. Obi-Wan’s amusement registered in the back of his mind.

“I can’t disagree with that assessment,” Obi-Wan said. “It is, after all, how I met him.”

“Only you would manage to pick up a stray Jedi,” Melee snorted, but she was smiling. “I guess we’re all here for a reason?”

Obi-Wan nodded approvingly, folding his arms into the sleeves of his robe. “Indeed.” The small group stilled, in part eager to learn the meaning of the gathering and captivated by such an esoteric figure—Anakin understood the feeling, recalling the moment Obi-Wan had revealed his true identity—a figure of myth.

And Anakin knew that Obi-Wan could be incredibly charismatic when he wanted to.

“The Jedi have a vested interest in taking down Jabba the Hutt,” he explained, letting each word hang in the air between them. “To the point, part of this involves starting a slave rebellion, and I am here to ask for your help in this endeavor.”

The moment that Anakin had been waiting his entire life for had come.

There was no explosion, no shock of noise from the group. Fifteen-odd faces stared disbelievingly at the Jedi as if he’d ordered them to jump in front of a herd of rampaging Bantha. Which was not an inappropriate metaphor, Anakin thought, because who in their right mind would willingly take on the Hutts and expect to survive the encounter?

“But how?” It was Amee, who had tremblingly voiced the unspoken question for the group. “We’re slaves, how could we ever hope… the Hutts…”

“You don’t believe in yourself,” Obi-Wan stated, a little cuttingly. A few in the group flinched, Anakin included, though for the life of him he couldn’t figure out exactly why. “That’s the problem. Not that you’re bound by contract, or have chips installed that could easily amputate you in any attempt to try.”

“Obi-Wan,” Anakin said, too softly for him to hear, but Obi-Wan acknowledged him anyway with a slight incline of his head. _I’m going to make them believe._

“I believe in you,” Obi-Wan announced, tone more gentle now, but every bit as confident. “The Jedi have served the Republic for thousands of years, rooting out injustice wherever it is found. But I have never seen a greater injustice than on this planet, in the form of your slavery. But to share that belief, that you deserve to be free to make your own choices, you are no different, no weaker, than we are.” Obi-Wan gestured at his own chest, at his heart. “And it begins here. Not with the logistics of winning. With hope.”

Obi-Wan stepped back, folding his hands back into his sleeves, and let the brief speech sink in. It was their turn to hope that the words had rung true.

“Tell us your plan,” Melee said, hands clenched in front of her heart.

“This is no order. I am asking, and I should like to consider this your first act of free will.” Obi-Wan reminded her. “Do you believe you can carry it out?”

“I believe,” Kitster said, and Anakin was overwhelmed to hear the chorus of agreement from the mouths of his friends.

“Then may the Force be with us,” Obi-Wan said, and for the second time that day, Anakin was taken in by the genuine smile that appeared on Obi-Wan’s face as the group echoed the expression. “Now, let me tell you what I have in mind.”

 

* * *

  

“They’ll come around,” Obi-Wan said to Anakin, later, as they left the emptying lot.

 

* * *

 

The plan was simple. At least in _theory_.

Tatooine had a population of roughly 200,000, of which slaves numbered approximately 50,000. Of the five most populated cities on the planet, Mos Espa had the greatest concentration of people, and thus would be their home base and where Obi-Wan and Anakin would remain to coordinate the rebellion. The others included Bestine, Anchorhead, Mos Entha, and Mos Eisley. The assault would have had to be coordinated such that each city’s rebellion happened simultaneously to maximize the strain of Jabba’s private army. In this, Obi-Wan had paired members of Anakin’s former engineering team, who were now free to go beyond city bounds, into teams of two or three to organize the their assigned city’s slaves. But they wouldn’t depart the city until Obi-Wan made sure that they’d had at least some blaster training to pass on, a little bit of leadership training, their commlinks, and a reasonable sum of credits courtesy of the Jedi emergency fund. In the meantime, they would spread word and gather who they could under the noses of their masters.

Anakin’s closest friends—outside of Melee, who would be going to Mos Eisley—would remain in Mos Espa.

Kitster was given a particularly special role.

“Sorry, what do you want me to do?” Kitster had asked, eyes narrowed at Obi-Wan. “I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

“From what I gathered from Anakin,” Obi-Wan replied, “you travel around the major cities fairly often. You have the advantage of being able to smuggle weapons and arms, or assorted supplies from city to city for us. And a slave revolt is, by definition, an armed uprising. I expect acquisition of weapons will be unequal from each team in each city, and you can distribute the excess.”

“ _Dopo me goola,_ you crazy Jedi! This is hilariously risky. If my master sees the extra blasters…” Kitster sighed. “Okay, fine, fine, I’m in.”

“Before that, you work for Gardulla, don’t you?” Kitster nodded, and Obi-Wan continued. “I need you to secure a meeting with Gardulla.” He turned to address the group, briefly explaining the reason for his request. “We can’t proceed with the rebellion until this meeting is concluded. As Gardulla dominates the majority of the slave trade on the planet, some of you included, taking her out of the picture takes care of her interference—a potentially great liability. Read: no missing limbs.”

Ah, Anakin thought. That would certainly put a stopper in their young revolt.

“This just keeps getting better and better,” Kitster raked a hand through his dark hair. Anakin patted his friend’s back soothingly, though he hadn’t thought it did much for Kitster’s nerves at the time and still didn’t think it did now. “I don’t think she’ll be very interested…”

“She has to,” Obi-Wan had said, placing his commlink in Kitster’s hands. “If she thinks that the backing of the entire Jedi Order is knocking on her doorstep.”

 

* * *

 

The next morning found Anakin in front of his mother’s workstation in the main living area, assembling commlinks. Obi-Wan had gone out to perform some task or another earlier that morning, and Anakin hadn’t been awake at the time, too tired from the excitement of yesterday’s almost-all-nighter of a meeting. It was strange to be the second one to rise for once as he was a morning person, the routine of getting up to work having been drilled into him at a young age.

Anakin sighed. He worried, and wished Obi-Wan had left him a note or something.

Obi-Wan was capable. _More_ than capable of taking care of himself. If there was anybody he should have been worried about, it should have been himself.

Because he was still reliant on Obi-Wan for training and for a sort of guidance in what was a transitory period of his life. He was still learning what it was like to be free, and he found himself with an abundance of time where sometimes, he wasn’t sure what to do with himself without someone telling him what to do, as much as he hated to admit it.

Perhaps, he realized, he was afraid. Of more than just his mother being hurt.

Perhaps he was afraid of being useless.

It was the entire reason he’d originally asked Obi-Wan to train him. Good intentions meant nothing if he didn’t have the ability to back them up, and the last thing he wanted to be was a burden. Mechanical skill aside, what he had to offer paled in comparison to what Obi-Wan was capable of. It wasn’t the first time he’d had this thought, but the more Obi-Wan impressed him…

He frowned at himself when he realized that he had accidentally stripped the screw he’d been fixing into place by overturning it. He hadn’t made that mistake in a long time, and pulled out some pliers from a drawer to begin the process of removing it. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. Ever since their discussion of Qui-Gon, Anakin had felt off in a way he couldn’t quite put to words.

Anakin’s senses had to have been improving, because just a moment later, he sensed Obi-Wan approaching the door of the apartment. He almost made to get up before he realized that his lap was covered in wires and they would all go tumbling onto the floor. He heard, rather than saw, Threepio before the droid walked into the apartment.

“—oh, and did you know that the average humidity level of the planet is exactly five-point-four percent, Master Obi-Wan?” Threepio chattered happily, stepping through the doorframe with an exasperated Obi-Wan in tow. The hood of his outer robe had been drawn up to protect against the harsh sunlight of noon.

“No, I didn’t, but I’m sure that fact will come in handy sometime,” Obi-Wan replied, pulling down his hood and shutting the door behind him with a press of a button. “Anakin, why exactly did you need such a chatty droid?”

“Why I _never_ ,” Threepio exclaimed with such genuine offense that Anakin found himself laughing helplessly, incredibly charmed by the situation.

“He’s a protocol droid,” he explained, packing the finished commlinks into a small plasteel box. “He was designed to serve, first and foremost, so he tends to defer to others. Sometimes a bit overmuch. I remember wondering if he suffered some kind of sensory vocal deprivation.”

“Master Anakin!” Threepio squawked, scandalized. His single arm fluttered around in mild affront. “I assure you that I am in top form, thanks to your regular maintenance!”

“You’re still missing an arm,” Obi-Wan reminded Threepio and the droid looked back down at his arm, jumping a little as if he’d realized that his arm was indeed, missing. “You haven’t attempted to reprogram him? To be a little less…” Obi-Wan waved in Threepio’s general direction, where he was still fretting over his missing forearm.

“Of course not!” Anakin objected, offended at the suggestion but not truly insulted. Most people didn’t see droids like he did. “Reprogramming him would be like brainwashing a person! Droids are people, too.” Anakin looked up from his sorting to find himself the target of a considering look, at once making him feel like a specimen on display and making him blush to the roots of his hair, but he still felt the need to clarify his point. “I um, I gave him the number designation three because he was like the third member of our family.”

“Master Anakin,” Threepio bawled, touched. Anakin worried briefly that he would short-circuit as the lights of his photoreceptors began flickering precariously. “You’ve never told me this before! Your sentiment warms my circuits, truly!”

“Don’t mention it,” Anakin said lowly, embarrassed. “Really.”

“When you think of it like that,” Obi-Wan conceded, and Anakin felt something flicker across their strange, shared bond. Obi-Wan watched Threepio laud praise after praise on his maker with a new sort of curiosity, leaning against his workstation as he did so. “I hope you didn’t mind my borrowing him for the day? I went out trading with the Jawas and Threepio had mentioned that he was fluent in a great number of languages.”

So that was where Obi-Wan had gone. Anakin breathed a sigh of relief.

“That’s okay,” he said around his fading anxiety. “What did you end up trading for?”

Obi-Wan hummed. “Information, mostly.”

That was strange, Anakin thought. Most people went to the Jawas to trade for mechanical parts, like himself. He wondered if Obi-Wan would tell him what exactly he’d traded for, and although he knew that he’d gotten better at shielding, Obi-Wan had clearly beaten him to the punch.

“A few of the Jawas work for Jabba himself,” Obi-Wan replied to his unspoken request. “Scavenging parts for himself to hoard and use or sell at inflated prices. As such, they know quite a few details about his operations, and his base of operations. It’ll become clearer in time. Closer to the time when we’ve got everything ready.”

Anakin frowned. He understood, in part, why Obi-Wan might keep details from him. Nothing was set in stone yet, and perhaps Obi-Wan wanted to avoid confusing him further with details that hadn’t yet formed fully in his plans.

But did that mean that Obi-Wan didn’t trust him enough? He wished he knew, and worse still, he knew he was an open book to the other.

So he bit back his questions about their upcoming meeting with Gardulla the Elder in three days, and focused on the comforting presence of Obi-Wan and Threepio as he continued his work on the last commlink in preparation for their training session tonight.

 

* * *

 

“I can’t remember the last time I’ve been here,” Anakin chattered nervously, following Obi-Wan out of the landspeeder provided to them by Gardulla. Kitster had certainly held up on his end of the deal, and they’d been able to arrange a meeting with Gardulla with little surprisingly little fuss. Never underestimate the efficiency of the Tatooine grapevine, he thought as he watched Obi-Wan follow after their Gamorrean chauffeur to the entrance of Gardulla’s citadel in the Dune Sea. It could loosely be described as a cluster of sandstone towers, a few partially built into nearby cliffs. They were loosely arranged around one, large complex, which if he remembered correctly, housed her arena and her prized Krayt Dragon.

He’d lied. He was three when he was last here, and nothing would ever rid him of the sight of her ‘pleasure gardens’. Obi-Wan caught the thought and flashed him a briefly concerned look before redirecting his attentions towards the looming buildings.

Anakin suspected that she’d even been expecting such a meeting.  In fact, if they hadn’t taken the initiative, it was likely that she would have sought them out sooner or later. So it was probably best that they’d arranged this meeting before she’d arranged an assassination attempt, and Anakin had not yet acquired a taste for being hunted.

“In,” the Gamorrean chauffeur said brusquely, having punched in the keycode to the door on one of the smaller towers. The door swished open with a perfunctory hiss. Obi-Wan pressed a light hand against his shoulder, almost as if in apology, and followed their guide into the dimly-lit sandstone corridor. The walk was silent but for the breathing of their guide, and soon sandstone gave way to decorated plaster and natural lighting. If he remembered correctly…

The arena. It would have been a grand thing to see for the first time, the open space illuminated by only the light of the suns in high noon, the audience stands spacious and bleached white. However, Anakin knew its bloody purpose, and his upper lip curled in disgust at the memory. Again, Obi-Wan glanced at him, having sensed his negative emotions. Instead, something like a mental touch reached out and coaxed open Anakin’s connection to the Force, and his revulsion gradually petered out into the sea of energy.

Anakin blinked, startled, as they skirted around the arena towards the back of the stadium. Obi-Wan only gave him a patient smile as they passed through the archway and into Gardulla’s throne room.

Hutts, as a species, were grotesquely drawn to excess. Perhaps he was generalizing, perhaps there was at least one decent Hutt out there, but Anakin had never had the pleasure of meeting them.

Twi'lek dancers and Bith musicians halted their routines as they proceeded deeper into the room, where Anakin could see more clearly that a large part of their audience were primarily Gardulla’s Weequay and Gamorrean thugs. It seemed a departure from her usual personage, and it seemed an indication of how seriously she took their meeting. Though she had to play the part of careless overlord, she was clearly wary of the Jedi reputation. Anakin wondered if she’d had prior experience.

“ _Ah, Master Jedi,_ ” Gardulla began in her warbling tones. Where she was seated at the head of the room, a young human girl in her early 20s sat up from her seat at Gardulla’s rather lavish pedestal and began translating for her. While Anakin needed no translation, the translation was largely for Obi-Wan’s benefit. Anakin would translate for Obi-Wan, and hopefully the girl’s job would be a little easier. Gardulla’s gaze slid sideways to rest on Anakin, and his spine stiffened in response. “ _And young Anakin Skywalker, too. What a fortuitous occasion for us to meet again. How is your mother?_ ”

“ _Fine, ma’am._ ” To Obi-Wan, he relayed, “she asked how my mother was.”

Obi-Wan focused his presence on Gardulla and said, “It’s a pleasure meeting you, Gardulla, in this grand palace of yours.” And as much as Anakin distained exchanging pleasantries with a Hutt, he knew it was all a part of the game. Mustering his most polite tone, no small feat given his usual irreverence for authority figures, he dutifully translated the message.

“ _Let’s cut to the chase, Jedi,_ ” Gardulla said, and the atmosphere of the room seemed to still in anticipation. “ _I know you’ve been freeing slaves, and I know you are not so ignorant to think that you are not treading upon my empire. I want to know what exactly your intentions are._ ”

Obi-Wan didn’t miss a beat, and Anakin tried to emulate his confidence in his translation. “Thank you for cutting to the chase, Gardulla. I am also not so ignorant to be unaware of your longstanding rivalry with Jabba Desilijic Tiure. In short, I seek to remove him from his seat of power.”

At this, Gardulla let out a rumble, or what passed as Hutt laughter. Anakin narrowed his eyes in distain as her humor stretched for almost a minute. Obi-Wan seemed otherwise unaffected, hands folded serenely behind his back.

“ _Jedi, I have been trying for a not-inconsiderable portion of my lifetime, and longevity is a boon of my species._ ” She eyed Obi-Wan with some amusement, and the light catching her irises gave her assessing look an almost ominous glow. “ _What makes you think that you would succeed where a Hutt could not?_ ”

“Use of your slaves, for one,” Obi-Wan retorted. “Though if you think that you would have more success at utilizing your resources than I, you would find that the proper motivation is a far greater factor in one’s ability to win a war than you might think.”

“ _I have heard of Jabba’s new acquisitions,_ ” Gardulla admitted, folding her bare, short arms across her protruding stomach. Her young translator chanced a brief glance at her fellow translator, and Anakin suspected that they both felt out of their depth. “ _Your request, I am sure, is no doubt related to this. And of my resources, you need them._ ” She, like any other Hutt, was sharp on the uptake.

Obi-Wan nodded. “Astute as expected of someone of your reputation. I would request of you the emancipation of your slave empire in accordance with my goal to neutralize Jabba before he causes harm to the Republic.”

Midway through his translation, a clamor among the audience broke out. By the end of his translation, the sound level of the room had risen to a level Anakin might have expected from the audience at one of his podraces. Gardulla raised an arm for silence, but she hadn’t made a sound after his request. A small eternity passed between them in the musty throne room before Gardulla deigned to speak again.

“ _This is no small request,_ ” Gardulla responded, finally. “ _This is a gamble on my part, and unlike most bets I make, I cannot see any way that this would benefit me. The odds are strongly against you._ ” Her wide, reptilian eyes narrowed. “ _And how do I know that you won’t renege on your deal and come after me, should you destroy Jabba? The last time I dealt in a deal of this size, Magister Damask reneged on our deal. I need to be sure you will keep your word._ ”

“You’re a gambler, Gardulla, but this is an enterprise you can profit sumptuously from,” Obi-Wan coaxed, almost teasing but not quite out of the bounds of respect. “Jabba’s entire empire would be yours for the taking.” Anakin paused. Wait, would they be taking down one Hutt only to supplant another one in a recently-vacated spot? How was that supposed to help things on Tatooine? Anakin wanted to protest, but another glance at Obi-Wan’s mild demeanor kept his protests in check. He _trusted_ Obi-Wan. He’d get an explanation later. “And of course, I wouldn’t offer you a bet without some collateral. In the circumstances that my own gamble fails, providing that I still live, I would resign from the Order and swear myself into your service.”

Wait. _What?_

He couldn’t have… did Obi-Wan just…?

Obi-Wan was looking at him expectantly, but Anakin stared back at him blankly, stunned beyond measure. No part of his brain continued to function, least of all any of the higher processes. A machine, broken, and no amount of skill as a mechanic would piece his thoughts back into coherency.

Then the anger settled in.

When no response from Anakin was forthcoming, the young girl trembled slightly and proceeded to relay her translation to their awaiting audience. And the crowd devolved into an uproar, but Anakin could not hear anything past the seething rage building in his veins.

 _Chuba doompa, dopa-maskey kung!_ Anakin shouted, and vindictively appreciated the way Obi-Wan flinched noticeably at the unadulterated acrimony in his tone. He was so far gone past simple words, he’d completely overlooked the way he’d foregone speech and straight into pure sentiment, rendered as his first telepathic thought. _If this was what you’d been planning all along, I wish I’d never come!_

Because he hadn’t come along to witness Obi-Wan selling himself to _slavery._

But Gardulla was laughing, her stomach undulating with mirth. “ _I like you, Jedi! You have guts, for a human._ ” She eyed him speculatively, and Anakin _did not_ like the predator’s look in her eye. “ _A Jedi would make a fine addition to my Garden._ ”

“As you would will it,” Obi-Wan said, and fixed him with a contrite gaze.

Damn him, Anakin bemoaned, as his fingers rattled against each other, limbs hung limply by his sides in defeat.

Damn him, because Anakin still trusted him.

Anakin opened his mouth to translate, and if his words came out more clipped than appropriate, nobody made a comment about it. There would be plenty of time to lash out at him, later, when things weren’t so dire. Obi-Wan turned back to Gardulla, his back to Anakin.

_Thank you, Anakin._

“ _Everything to gain and nothing to lose,_ ” Gardulla gurgled, already lost in her delusions of power. “ _His empire, a trained Jedi, and just the loss of a few slaves._ ” She let tension build up in the room even as her answer was already clear to read across her face. “ _I agree to your terms. Let us stay to write out the terms of your agreement, and I will lend you the use of my rooms as a sign of my goodwill._ ”

Anakin let his gaze burn into Obi-Wan’s back as the Jedi strode forward do what he did best. Bargain with pieces of unquantifiable value.

 

* * *

 

“Anakin.”

“Kriffing leave me alone, Obi-Wan,” Anakin thundered. Or he fancied he would have, if he hadn’t walked out onto the adjoining balcony and cut his own speech off with a slap of the closing transparisteel doors, customized for withstanding inclement Tatooinian weather. He was in no mood to speak to Obi-Wan right now, not after what he’d done. What he’d pulled. Of all the people he knew, Obi-Wan was exactly the last person Anakin would have expected such a proposal to come from. Perhaps he should have known better.

“It was necessary,” Obi-Wan said, tentatively sliding the balcony door open again. He hesitated just a moment before letting himself fall down next to Anakin, surprisingly inelegant considering his usual grace. “Would you let me explain, please?”

“I don’t want any excuses,” Anakin said, avoiding Obi-Wan’s gaze. His self-control had never been the best, and Anakin didn’t want to give away more weaknesses for Obi-Wan to grasp onto in the interests of levering himself out of his guilt. Because he needed a rational answer, not a consoling one, that Obi-Wan knew that his life was worth more than ‘just a few slaves.’

“Please know that I don’t bargain myself and my freedom lightly,” Obi-Wan began. “But you must know that I would be obligated, compelled, even, to give myself to a higher cause.”

“Freeing the slaves of Tatooine?” Anakin queried sarcastically, but he knew his tone betrayed his misery. Where was the equal trade in this? “A week ago you didn’t think twice before dismissing the idea of it.”

“In your company,” Obi-Wan smiled, a small and mournful thing, “one tends to think differently.”

Anakin couldn’t find the words, and Obi-Wan took advantage of his silence to fill it with logic.

“Gardulla is a gambler at heart. Sweetening the deal in the case that we failed was essential, and she knows the worth of one skilled enforcer. She needed the collateral, and I could not make promises on behalf of the Republic in the case that we failed. Or even if we succeed. It is the Senate’s decision to liaise with foreign powers, and in our deal, I could only open up the possibility. And not having her cooperation shuts our operation down entirely. Because we are trying to dabble in her domain and she has every right to give us away to Jabba, animosity notwithstanding.

"Additionally," Obi-Wan continued, "we are supplanting Jabba with Gardulla to avoid the scramble for power left by the massive power vacuum in the Outer Rim that Jabba's death will surely cause. The Hutt Council would certainly point fingers at the Jedi and the Republic, given our involvement. With this, it's more simple to say that we were swept up in a power struggle. It's a cynical way of looking at it, but Gardulla is a known variable. Intelligent as their species are, Jabba is exceedingly exceptional for his kind. Gardulla, from what reports I've gathered, has a tendency to make poor bets." Obi-Wan's eyes glimmered with conspiracy. "Excepting ours, of course. But she will relinquish more territory than Jabba currently has. She may even prove weak enough, in time, for Tatooine to establish its own authority independent of the Hutt Council. But as terms of our agreement, she will not renege on reclaiming her slave enterprise. And that just may be enough."

 _Karking hells._ Anakin hated rationale, even as he needed it, and he longed to be yelling at Obi-Wan instead of listening to him smooth-talk his way out of this mess.

“I don’t plan on failing, Anakin,” Obi-Wan finished. “Believe me in this, at least.”

The sky began to dissolve into the familiar purples of night. The silence between them remained until the first stars began to peer out from behind the opaque blanket of night. Cloudless, because there were few, if any, clouds in the arid climate of Tatooine. With the slow emergence of the stars, Anakin’s anger began to wane.

“I just,” he said, haltingly, because he wasn’t sure how well Obi-Wan took criticism. And Anakin didn’t like the backlash that came from voicing his opinions. “I don’t think you should undervalue how much of a gift being free is.”

“No one would appreciate it better than you would,” Obi-Wan agreed, resting his palms on his knees. “I understand. I didn’t make that decision lightly. But I believe this—your cause—is a cause worth the effort, even without my duty to the Republic.”

“Then why were you so skeptical when I first met you? What changed?” Anakin pressed, questions building rapidly in his throat. “Will you tell me now? Why you thought freeing me was so terrible?”

“The moment I met you, I knew. It wasn’t out of the question that I could easily have freed you. The question was: _why?_ And why _you?”_ His tone was raw, his gaze turned towards the heavens and trailing deliberately from star system to star system. Each one superficially identical but characteristically unique. “A quick path to a slippery slope of reasoning. What made you so special? Why free one slave, why not free all of them? Like it matters now.” He snorted, a light exhalation. “Did I do the right thing? Am I doing the right thing? The Jedi would say no. But for the first time in years I am acting on my emotions, and I find that I cannot regret it even as I should, and that causes me pain.”

“You don’t regret it?” Anakin asked, voice wavering. And then he knew he could no longer hold onto his anger no more than he could leash his emotions.

“No,” Obi-Wan said, eyes bright and _passionate_. “Because not freeing you would have been the greater tragedy.”

His heart thundered in his chest, his pulse loud in his ears. The compassion in Obi-Wan’s eyes was a treasured thing, the focal point of Anakin’s attention.

Freedom, confidence. These were the things Obi-Wan had given him. He might just have given him something else, something he’d thought unobtainable, but for the glimmer of hope that revealed itself in this admission.

Somebody to love.

Truly, freedom had ruined him. Freedom was intoxicating. Freedom had made him selfish. For the first time in a long while, Anakin wanted. Let himself want. Anakin wanted to be Obi-Wan’s equal, no longer satisfied with standing a step behind him. He wanted to be worthy of Obi-Wan’s trust. He wanted to bury himself inside the safety of Obi-Wan’s ribcage, to bind two entities to the point which they were inseparable, a grotesque expression of need but for which he had no substitute.

Anakin reached for Obi-Wan’s hand, his fingers clenched tightly in his lap as a reflection of internal conflict. His own fingers gently worked them loose, now lax in his grasp.

“I wish you could see,” Anakin said. “That this applies to you, too.”

“I can’t keep you,” Obi-Wan sighed, but entwined his fingers in Anakin’s anyway.

 _But I want to keep you_ , Anakin thought and turned his attentions to the stars, luxuriating in the comfort of the warm weight of Obi-Wan’s hand in his own.

Anakin used to dream of seeing the stars, of exploring the planets when he was young, a promise dulled by the passage of time.

He wondered when _‘seeing the stars’_ became _‘seeing them with Obi-Wan.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first thing on my list after finishing finals: 1) POST THIS, DAMMIT, no sleep for you until you post this!
> 
> so an entire archaeological age later, i'm back!!! i'm so very sorry for the wait, it was just that _some_ scenes just weren't cooperating with me. i'd actually written most of this during rogue one, so any extra parallels to rebellions should be directed there, lol! thank you to everyone who's still following this, i'm so very grateful. if there's anything you'd like to see, please let me know what you think!


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